Compagnia
dell Imbuto Confuso

Sketches, rehearsals, stage directions

while she jumped around the fire
like a wild woman /
the brain slices
curled up merrily / I
could not help but think of / as she
invited me
to her apartment to eat asparagus
we cannot determine the figures
without a
location associated with them
since the connections between
these and those places
are taken out of time
they fall into each other at the
same time as
that which belongs to them / such
as the figure of my aunt
as she leaps like an elf
from one blossom to the next
as she burns the brain specimens
cut into wafer-thin slices
in the front part of the garden / which
at the urgent request of
her superior she carried in a heavy
suitcase on the last train
that left Berlin in 45 from the Charité
to her home village in Hesse
where the suitcase remained in her
attic
for decades
because in the new era no one was
interested in the
brain slices of criminals / the insane
and other
unworthy lives anymore
with the ashes, she fertilises her
asparagus patch, which, she says, is
without comparison / in the whole
neighbourhood
in the whole neighbourhood
we cannot determine the figures
without a
location associated with them
while she jumped around the fire
like a wild woman /
the brain slices
curled up merrily / I
could not help but think of / as she
invited me
to her apartment to eat asparagus
with the ashes, she fertilises her
asparagus patch, which, she says, is
without comparison / in the whole
neighbourhood
in the whole neighbourhood

no / I say to my wife / I don't want him to
go
he's not an apparition / not a fantasy
not a wound of Christ in life format
nor a surreal image on my part
his appearance is / I say to my wife
a hyperreal event / an accumulation
of what is happening
so to speak a penance in true sense
making amends
my uncle's digestion is certainly
still impeccable today
not bad / I say to my wife, for someone
who hasn't been among
the living for almost exactly 70 years
but that has never stopped him
from making himself comfortable with me,
eating from my plate
and drinking from my cup / he likes to
walk with me, sits in the
front row between the students and rocks
his leg in boredom
no / I say to my wife / I don't want him to
go
he's not an apparition / not a fantasy
not a wound of Christ in life format
nor a surreal image on my part
his appearance is / I say to my wife
a hyperreal event / an accumulation
of what is happening
so to speak a penance in true sense
making amends
while we packed our
bags and thought
about how Texas John emigrated to
the promised land
always fleeing from the agents of anarchy
who like sandworms,
pierce every layered surface of time
from right to left and
from top to bottom
and have devilish fun doing so,
shifting the slices of the brain at will
my uncle's digestion is certainly
still impeccable today
not bad / I say to my wife, for someone
who hasn't been among
the living for almost exactly 70 years
no / I say to my wife / I don't want him to
go
he's not an apparition / not a fantasy
not a wound of Christ in life format
nor a surreal image on my part
his appearance is / I say to my wife
a hyperreal event / an accumulation
of what is happening
so to speak a penance in true sense
making amends

who laid his heavy hand
on my
child's breast / that
I wriggle like a beetle on my back
with my little arms and my
and my fat little legs
that the agents screamed
with delight
if the agents of
anarchy would be properly
dressed
and immediately
refrained from fidgeting
everyone would
probably listen to my father's
story attentively
but this way
they shake their moon-sized
heads
tap with pointed fingers
against their waxy
temples / but no / no son
of the king and the beautiful
Lilofee / never united with
the water god
united / who a thousand times
shed a thousand and one tears
for his sake / I speak
of him the little Anselino
who fathered me / gave me
his name / God knows
not only one
a thousand and one for
each agent
one and none at the same time
if the agents of
anarchy would be properly
dressed
and immediately
refrained from fidgeting
everyone would
probably listen to my father's
story attentively
who laid his heavy hand
on my
child's breast / that
I wriggle like a beetle on my back
with my little arms and my
and my fat little legs
that the agents screamed
with delight
if the agents of
anarchy would be properly
dressed
and immediately
refrained from fidgeting
everyone would
probably listen to my father's
story attentively

because I had deflowered some woman
whose name she did not say
on the passenger side / which is not true
but she insists on it /
I had bitten her on the neck
and she is keeping quiet about the rest
aims / as he has learned / over
the rear sight and front sight
at her neck / says later / as if he
had lost his favorite animal
the three other victims
are slaughtered in the dining
room
Ernest fires at close range / the
second loads / the third cries
for over twenty years I visit him
once a month
we sit opposite each other for
three hours
I / I and the murderer named
Ernest /
four victims / three killers each
sentenced to life in prison
some say a rope around the neck
or 2000 volts chased
through the body of the convict
until death occurs
would have been better /
the three other victims
are slaughtered in the dining
room
Ernest fires at close range / the
second loads / the third cries
because I had deflowered some woman
whose name she did not say
on the passenger side / which is not
true
but she insists on it /
I had bitten her on the neck
and she is keeping quiet about the rest
40 years earlier
they would have severed his head
from the rest and sliced his
brain into the finest slices / like those
my aunt burned in the front
part of the garden
while I was visiting Ernest in the
detention center
she lent me her car. / a sky-blue
Opel Kadet / the seats finely diced /
on the passenger side stained
by dark spots / which was my fault / says
my aunt /
because I had deflowered some woman
whose name she did not say
on the passenger side / which is not
true
but she insists on it /
I had bitten her on the neck
and she is keeping quiet about the rest

I shouldn't worry about /
says the uncle / that she has
reproached me again
and again
of not having noticed
my blind spots
the uncle has been dead for
decades
which
as I have mentioned several times
does not prevent him from
appearing to me with
the most beautiful regularity
his appearances are
neither imaginary
nor unreal or surreal / nor a sign or
miracle but
rather and exclusively hyperreal
I shouldn't worry about /
says the uncle / that she has
reproached me again
and again
of not having noticed
my blind spots
his appearances are
neither imaginary
nor unreal or surreal / nor a sign or
miracle but
rather and exclusively hyperreal
the uncle has been dead for
decades
which
as I have mentioned several times
does not prevent him from
appearing to me with
the most beautiful regularity
I shouldn't worry about /
says the uncle / that she has
reproached me again
and again
of not having noticed
my blind spots
the uncle has been dead for
decades
which
as I have mentioned several times
does not prevent him from
appearing to me with
the most beautiful regularity
his appearances are
neither imaginary
nor unreal or surreal / nor a sign or miracle but
rather and exclusively hyperreal

that we pull the orange
skin off their flesh
I loved / to cook jam
on summer evenings
when my aunt
strolling through the garden
in her negligee
like an elf she jumps from
one blossom to another
before my eyes she pauses
in her leap
while I push the stacked
twice folded slices of sausage
into my mouth
this is also a pause
only vertically aligned
against the absurd idea
of a completion of one kind or
another
that we pull the orange
skin off their flesh
I loved / to cook jam
on summer evenings
when my aunt
strolling through the garden
in her negligee
like an elf she jumps from
one blossom to another
we no longer need to discuss it
no writing a novel is
just as impossible
as composing a symphony
or to paint a triptych
everything else / drawings /
songs
poems / above all
especially the poem torn
out of
the middle
without beginning without end
persisting at the same time
dissolving into countless
blind spots
that we pull the orange
skin off their flesh
I loved / to cook jam
on summer evenings
when my aunt
strolling through the garden
in her negligee
like an elf she jumps from
one blossom to another

This is a poetic statement:
“Poetry is the
decoding and recoding of
what we actually are:
agents of a multiple nothingness.”
It takes a certain amount of time,
say four to five decades
per person, a series of centuries
God knows,
maybe millennia /
from person to person, to find
out if we have taken
a few steps towards poetry.
Poetry is to be understood on
the basis of poetic
in its etymological meaning from
Latin poeticus,
from Greek “relating to poetry”,
literally “creative,
productive”, from poiētos “made”,
verbal adjective of poiein
“to make”.
A poet, then, is one who becomes
an active agent by
dividing the
nothingness into something that
is, as well as it is not.
This in my mind, the active
surrender
to the multiple nothingness,
leaves me with only
one question to ask.
A question to be objectified,
the object to
be deconstructed, the particles
thus dissected
to be formalised, the forms to
be composed.
There is no other object than
the conditions of
my bodily perception as it
has taken place in
my organs,
from the digestive tract to the brain,
from the sixteenth
month of my birth, when my
father implanted
his telling into my fertile flesh,
until today.
The question reads:
“How do I stage the act of
splitting the multiple
nothingness into something
that is, as well as it is not?”

I hugged the one of whom
Henry Miller said
he was the only analyst
Nietzsche would
ever have agreed with
would they ever get by
with half a turn
would not open their mouths
so wide / now
like crystals they burn
to pull over their rubber
masks
in the middle of the night
and dance around my bed
since my father works for
the Americans
he doesn't mind all that
any more
it must have been in April
45
a few weeks before the war
was finally over
others follow
would they ever get by
with half a turn
would not open their mouths
so wide / now
like crystals they burn
I hugged the one of whom
Henry Miller said
he was the only analyst
Nietzsche would
ever have agreed with
certainly
Arno knew all about the
agents
also with the masks
that reach down to the
navel
to me and the others
included the three
seven sleepers
we had adopted
pat each other's
rubbery cheeks
laughing and crying
a violent waving of our
arms
legs and other limbs
I hugged the one of whom
Henry Miller said
he was the only analyst
Nietzsche would
ever have agreed with
would they ever get by
with half a turn
would not open their mouths
so wide / now
like crystals they burn

they are nothing but their laughter
their stepping and trampling
with contorted faces
their staggering and weaving
their naughtiness
their being in love with everything
that from the inside out
intermixes excessively
he says / their masks reveal the
nothingness of meaning
that everything arbitrarily follows
the equally valid / a kiss /
a rubbing of the outer
limbs / inserted into one another
the laughter they let out as if
mockery and scorn
were being poured over me
the uncle says that this is
their natural form of appearance
they are nothing but their laughter
their stepping and trampling
with contorted faces
their staggering and weaving
their naughtiness
their being in love with everything
that from the inside out
intermixes excessively
I say to myself
that the uncle must know
for so many reasons
the uncle studied theology and
tells me
that I should think in terms of
the fundamental
of movement / yawning / the
fluttering of the tongue
the fingers, even the innermost
limbs
sure / it seems to you / as if
they are laughing at you /
but
but what you / you
have told, whether you are sleeping
or eating or stacked the stones
on top of each other
is completely meaningless to them
the agents of becoming
are not interested in anything / except
in that moment / in which
movement
became flesh, grasping itself in
the mask of man
he says / their masks reveal the
nothingness of meaning
that everything arbitrarily follows
the equally valid / a kiss /
a rubbing of the outer
limbs / inserted into one another
they are nothing but their laughter
their stepping and trampling
with contorted faces
their staggering and weaving
their naughtiness
their being in love with everything
that from the inside out
intermixes excessively

It is quite absurd to find
the whole gallery
of ancestors in the aesthetic
subconsciousness
of all humanity, as it is stored
in the multidimensional

latent space. At least
humanity so far. I am talking
about the ancestors
about whom my father was
silent, the whole
paternal clan in which he, the
bastard, had

nothing to say. All the more
he spoke to me, every
day late in the evening, from
my sixteenth month
on earth until I was two years
old. 8 months, an
eternity for such a small child.

The aunts laughed
their heads off. Literally. After
1948 there were none
left. And the king went into exile.
The dwarf king, 1.48 meters
tall. That they had to change
the statues,

otherwise he, my father's father,
would not have been
allowed to join the military. King
or not. The aunts
laughed their heads off. He
had to climb on a
chair to poke his dwarf king's

tentacle into my
grandmother's belly. This is how
slave children are
conceived. Poor little Anselino.
That's what he told me,
the story of the lost child. And the
fact that he told it

to me was for me both the most
horrible and
the most beautiful story.

There are three main levels
on which agents
can be perceived. The term
levels is used in
reference to the neurophysical
realities of our physical
being and imaginative perception.
First, the interaction
of bodies as fluted by agents
eliminates what we
used to call individual identity.
Identifications in terms
of right or wrong, good or bad, are
no longer possible.
Second, by eliminating all normally
valid values, the fluting
of the agents is embodied in the
figures of comedy.
Incidentally, sexuality is the reference
point of all comedy, since it
is the drive that transforms our
habits into ridiculous gestures and
behaviors.
The third level is that of narration.
What happens through the
involuntary interaction from one body
to another, fluted by the agents of
anarchy, must be described
as an act
of subjectivation.
Subjectivation will only happen if one
surrenders to the infinitives as
they are almost materialized in the
agents: to becoming and all the verbs,
adjectives and nouns derived
from it.

Three layers unfold, where agents weave,
In bodies of flesh, senses shift and blur.
The first: we are fluted, no longer distinct.
The concept of the individual fades,
No fixed self, no lines between right and wrong.
Identities dissolve like smoke,
What was solid is now fluid, always in motion.
In the current of time, we bend and break,
Agents of anarchy, undoing every boundary.
No rules hold us, no chains confine.
We rise and fall, open to the vast unknown.
Second, comedy emerges in the space left behind.
Sex, the catalyst, unravels our expectations,
Habits and gestures transformed into absurdity.
Laughter erupts where meaning once stood firm,
Now everything is unstable, constantly shifting,
As the agents make playthings of our convictions.
In the current of time, we bend and break,
Agents of anarchy, undoing every boundary.
No rules hold us, no chains confine.
We rise and fall, open to the vast unknown.
The third: narration begins, a story unfolds,
Through the collision of bodies fluted by agents.
Surrender to becoming, to verbs and acts untamed,
A new subject emerges from the chaos,
Unnameable, unbound, in a constant state of flux,
Where being is nothing but change itself.
In the current of time, we bend and break,
Agents of anarchy, undoing every boundary.
No rules hold us, no chains confine.
We rise and fall, open to the vast unknown.

Compagnia dell Imbuto Confuso

Compagnia
dell Imbuto Confuso