Harun II (Ends)

Last words of paragraphs:

– an anticipation.
an art of creating beginnings
One of Harun Farocki’s beginnings:
We can drop it the middle of events.
On July 30th, Harun Farocki died.
It trickles, disseminates, preserves.
glitches of a new technology
a stunning form of consumer-oriented warfare,
How to begin, again?
Reality’s absence stays put.
This beginning takes the form of a statement:
Which roles are valid.
Production holds conflict
It is its most basic form.
Another beginning:
if I am not watching it?
You’re lucky it hasn’t got arse physics or else I would.
Why don’t people eat their browsers instead?
Cinema is now rephrased as architecture
Think of a televised ballet performed by a fantasy military sports brigade.
The technology was too slow to keep up with Farocki’s furious pace.
Stagecraft for reality
Reality would have to begin.
Another of Farocki’s beginnings:
Looks like it might have been just a glitch.
– now generated by images.
Just like the paper airplane, by the way.
Words of the Chairman:
something like a 3D animation.
the point is to generate worlds differently.
The beginner’s spirit day by day.
he is no longer here.
People faint every time it comes down Karl-Mar-Allee.
All of us are now in a position to answer your question:
Does the world exist, if I am not watching it?
reality can finally be brought about.



Harun I (Beginnings)

First Words of paragraphs:

How to begin?
A good beginning
one of Harun Farocki’s beginnings:
We can drop in the middle of events.
How to begin, again?
In 1992,
This beginning takes the form
The Hero is thrown into the world.
One of
Another Beginning
Does the World exist
This beginning is among his last:
in 1992,
These works are building blocks.
There used to be one TV per flat.
Another group of works investigates
In its inception,
Reality would have to begin.
Another of Farocki’s beginnings:
Looks like it might have been just a glitch.
A soldier
Like warfare,
In an interview published
Filmmakers have hitherto only represented
Paradoxically the beginning is also often the last
Today, workers are leaving
I know I am not alone in this.
All of us are now in a position to answer your question:
Does the world exist,
Reality would first have to begin.





The End


Pitch Black tar of nothingness.

Paranoiac Schizophrenia

The brink of Death



Dream –


The cosmic Yin and Yang.

Circle of Life



The Beginning



The Ballad of you and me

The Dark; side of the Night,

Fiery Jazzy Dynamos of the never-ending kind

Fans of The Stranger Tales,

Schizophrenia and BLANK!

In Taxicabs and other Neon time machines

Soul ascending next dimension/ Astro transcendental

Starry Starry sky,

Show us a new song

A threefold thunderbolt rhapsody

Racing across from the Midnight past to midnight black

The path of excess leads to the tower of wisdom



A Kafkan wilderness – Cold metal Grey and dry dust

Rain-washed black tar, speckled with charcoal grey

Grey rats grey birds grey dogs and other grey bipeds

No red – only something soft that may pass for mud

A few tufts of hair and slivers of chewed out bleached bones

Awash with the waters of the Styx / and Poison / polluted

Cold hands of a wind tickling Embers burnt / barricaded

Damp, dank and dark are the colors of this world

Lifeless and drab, there are greens and blues

Dreamless machine lives and washed out hues

Drink from the flowers / Eat the seed

Dancer of Death of the nether never land

Are you following me?


Overlooking civilization / Murakami upside down…

Super-non-Flat / where we are

Prisoners of own worlds isolated manifest before your eyes,

In parallel world Timespace Continuum wormhole Black hole reality

As breaths compress / stars die / Atlas, turns the axis

We could be starlight, with nothing to prove / suspended animation

In between the lines lies lice lies and blood thirsty sex

Mindless – opinions fed to drug fuelled masses

They eat feasting on rotten meat / fleeced

Atrophy to nerve ending capacity – no time. No time

I’ll be there when you’re gone


Movement / no movement – pregnant stasis

The inherent soliloquies of a six billion planktonian people

Vast oceans of sand and watery deserts / barren and unforgiving

Can we know ourselves if we don’t know where we are?

Is it silence that we hear, or a roar

A grandmaster playing Psychedelic, thick like tar

Mushroom cloud substance, gooey chaotic stuff

Thunderous, deafening, tumultuous / Brownian motion funeral march

Narcotic anarchic / Supernova Fantastic / stretching like elastic

Surrounding us engulfing us choking us drowning us

Womb of pain /Anti Mother / the Phantom Zone

Will we be destroyed by our very own silences?





Wrapped in a mother’s womb,

Secure in my cocoon

I hear…voices

Joy and pain are one

Ecstasy, Agony

Feel it all, little one

The circus is beginning.


Numb I have become

Warm and intuitive, mutate

To Cold and calculating,

Push, pull,

Strain, break

No joy, no pain



Twisting and kicking

Everything is upside down,

The white light calls

Life is death

Pink, Purple, Blue, Black

Feet first, I arrive

Stillborn .


A body split in two

A Body split in two, not mine anymore

Ripped, Torn and Raped – ash and dust shroud it

A Garden of Leaflessness, who says its isn’t beautiful?

A picket fence in my own home and the house of my people

Barbed, Spiked and dripping with poison hissing and burning

Blind Cerberus is on the prowl, he is everywhere, visible but unseen

The mad demon rampages and tramples around ceaselessly in

Schizophrenic chaos, vomiting anarchy like toxic luminous fumes

A mirror cracked, Shards fall to the ground like diamonds broken

And faces that gaze back a thousand fold, like voyeurs peeking and staring back at me

Each incomplete, a virtual reflection of a hallucination that rises up in the smoky bog of our prosperity

The stench of a Dying civilization the rising Bile of guilt

We laugh like mad children, nervous and tittering

Naked and stripped we point to each other in failed attempts at redemption

Drunk on the liquor of Aries, huddled in our private ghettos we are all alone

Mute spectators in the cosmic coliseum, we witness

The Genocide of hope, freedom and the reason to be

The vengeful Gods, The Iron Fist

A New World Order of Black and White

Mechanical men, a parade they say, drumming a requiem

Marching towards Xanadu, and to kingdom come

The inherent chaos of all things, compounded

And Don Quixote will fight the ogres no more



Finding Icarus (For Tyeb Mehta)


Icarus finds his wings again,

The falling, now paused, becomes flying again;

Beyond midnight, as the night turns to day,

Peace, finally settles on his brow again.


Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

The new day dawns again;

As the rain washes the tears and the world,

Mars red, burnt umber and parchment white fill the canvas again.


Soliloquy in Four Parts




There is a churning, a tide

Within and without.

Embrace it, or escape it,

A liminal space – a crossroads of sorts.

Black on charcoal gray wash

Speckled with dull red, white and turquoise.

Gaseous, nebulous, haze whirls around me

Blurring my vision

Continuing to grasp, to grab at something,

The futility of it all makes me smile,

Will write more when I reach somewhere…




I am somewhere, between now and here,

Between two insignificant specks of time

Suspended, it’s difficult to move

Or maybe it’s slow motion,

A defining moment in the grand reel of life

Walking, walking eternally

Down unknown paths and winding ways

The brush is the meat cleaver, the blood is paint

All is lost, all gained

The words are simple, the thoughts complex

Are you following me?




Follow me, little one

The carnival is beginning

Point, counterpoint

Synthesis – we move ahead

A circular line, spiraling

Similar yet never the same

The dichotomy and the balance

Illusions surrounding me

Absolute black turns to blinding white light

The Heroes disappear,

The frayed ends of sanity dissolve.

Such is the fate of the world,

Our feet will always tread on the spit of others.






Thoughts strung together,

A series of images, a thousand words

Multiplying, branching out

Implode in my head

Milestones in eternity

Sprouting from a seed of thought

These thoughts and words and images

Need freedom, from me and themselves,

Taking root and breaking free

The seed becomes the Bodhi tree

Salvation comes as time goes by

I’m following the fool’s path

Are you following me still?



Dream I

Cracked mirrors and still waters

A skewed reality, I step within,

Picking up the shards of glass, diamond dust

Turns to rubies with each pinprick

I prefer emeralds, wish I were a Martian

Awash in the rivers of Idd

The wall is breached bit by bit

Through the crack I glimpse

Two hanging horses,

The bamboo chime,

The rusted tin can,

Jade leaves and gold feathers,

A grave tree amidst clouds of fluff,

Falooda skies,

Lit by a street light painted red, in which

A turquoise bulb flickers incessantly

Psychedelic chaos

Bubblegum pink, cerulean blue, lemon yellow,

Rose Gold and white.

Phoenix flying, dying,

Being reborn

A palace of exile, vast, endless

A string of doors and gateways

Endlessly passing through

I reach the beginning

To lose oneself in a world

Of one’s own making

Madmen, genius and fools

Chess games between Morrison and Dali

Or battleships, or kabaddi

Glass palaces can exist

If only in my mind

In worlds of daydreams and sleepless nights

In spells, prayers and enchantments

In quantum theory and microphysics

Mythology and science fiction

These worlds shift, ripple and shimmer

Drip, meander and distort

Flow along from dream to dream,

And I move on.