messages. It may be asked, why these excesses? Must they not hold violence in abhorrence? Is not their structure fragile and will they not shatter at the first onslaught if they are not already in pieces from collision with each other? They say, listen, listen, they cry évohé, évohé, leaping like the young horses on the banks of the Eurotas. Stamping the earth, they speed their movements.
URSULA OBI ATIGONE
ANTIGONE AGNETHE
NO/SYMBOLS TEARING
ARISE VIOLENCE FROM THE WHITENESS
OF THE UNDYING BEAUTIFUL PRESENT
WITH A GREAT DRUNKEN WING-BEAT
THE BODY RIDDLED TORN
(INTOLERABLE) WRITTEN BY DEFAULT
ARISE NO/SYMBOLS MASSED
EVIDENT/THE DESIGNATED TEXT
(BY MYRIAD CONSTELLATIONS)
FAULTY
LACUNAE LACUNAE
AGAINST TEXTS
AGAINST MEANING
WHICH IS TO WRITE VIOLENCE
OUTSIDE THE TEXT
IN ANOTHER WRITING
THREATENING MENACING
MARGINS SPACES INTERVALS
WITHOUT PAUSE
ACTION OVERTHROW
Moved by a common impulse, we all stood to seek gropingly the even flow, the exultant unity of the Internationale. An aged grizzled woman soldier sobbed like a child. Alexandra Ollontaï could hardly restrain her tears. The great song filled the hall, burst through doors and windows and rose to the calm sky. The war is over, the war is over, said a young working woman next to me. Her face shone. And when it was finished and we remained there in a kind of embarrassed silence, a woman at the end of the hall cried, Comrades, let us remember the women who died for liberty. And then we intoned the Funeral March, a slow, melancholy and yet triumphant air.
URSULA OBI ATIGONE
ANTIGONE AGNETHE
NO/SYMBOLS TEARING
ARISE VIOLENCE FROM THE WHITENESS
OF THE UNDYING BEAUTIFUL PRESENT
WITH A GREAT DRUNKEN WING-BEAT
THE BODY RIDDLED TORN
(INTOLERABLE) WRITTEN BY DEFAULT
ARISE NO/SYMBOLS MASSED
EVIDENT/THE DESIGNATED TEXT
(BY MYRIAD CONSTELLATIONS)
FAULTY
LACUNAE LACUNAE
AGAINST TEXTS
AGAINST MEANING
WHICH IS TO WRITE VIOLENCE
OUTSIDE THE TEXT
IN ANOTHER WRITING
THREATENING MENACING
MARGINS SPACES INTERVALS
WITHOUT PAUSE
ACTION OVERTHROW
Moved by a common impulse, we all stood to seek gropingly the even flow, the exultant unity of the Internationale. An aged grizzled woman soldier sobbed like a child. Alexandra Ollontaï could hardly restrain her tears. The great song filled the hall, burst through doors and windows and rose to the calm sky. The war is over, the war is over, said a young working woman next to me. Her face shone. And when it was finished and we remained there in a kind of embarrassed silence, a woman at the end of the hall cried, Comrades, let us remember the women who died for liberty. And then we intoned the Funeral March, a slow, melancholy and yet triumphant air.
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