these variations are based on guy debord’s footnotes to his essay comments on the society of the spectacle written in 1988
Guilt – culbabilite – colpa – schuld
Otherwise no results found.
The logic of his guilt clearly established he confessed to a crime he knew he hadn’t committed.
Later in the day he retracted his statement. All that was left were empty words.
The prosecutor knew the judge, knew the judgement. Whereas the defence only knew the guiltless, only knew the end.
At four in the morning the dreams scattered.
What was left to say?
In the Romance languages guilt is feminine.
Is it this, the decline, the fall.
Even those who strive not to weaken in the face, not to weaken in the gorse, to travel on, forgetting.
To travel on to the end, the pain of daily travail.
The medications given cannot cure; the medications only make it worse.
And this is it, down the path, the ashes disperse and finally gone.
A moon gives off a full quavering. Such a magic realm revealed.
The marble swan flutters higher than necessary. Only this evening and never repeated.
Are false hopes better than no hopes?
The shells are shuffled, nothing under any.
And now who runs the show when the show runs them?
In the long run watch the mountebanks’ parade.
Then the stooges enter unannounced. No need to hail the defeated.
And what else is on offer?
the sound of sorrow
on my pillow
is no idle dream
Make mountains ring, make angels cry.
Make angels ring, make mountains cry.
what better place
to hide the prisoner
than in full view
of the authorities
In dim light mistakes can be made.
Several pieces play out at once.
He founded a movement for the purpose of provocation.
He succeeded in blaming those with perfect alibis.
The flames licked the embassy dry.
And then he disappeared, because he was never here.
where everyone lies, no one lies; where everything is a lie, nothing is a lie.
How many accidental deaths does it take? How many autopsies?
The knife lied and Dr Benway signed the certificate. All the experts lined up and applauded.
The dead were safe at least. Their bodies carefully prepared for damnation. They rose as one and sang a carnival tune as they’d been taught to do.
The appropriation: burning dreams and visions.
Blown up by bitter methods at speed. Cold air whisks through an open door.
We could hear the whirring of a singular aim: the static of disruption from afar.
It was over in moments as the end usually comes.
Who conducted the dirty war, who conducted the clean?
Where are the righteous, in the gutter or in the pulpit?
When did the songs of praise turn into marching tunes?
Who pays for victors? Who accepts defeat?
What year of the Lord is this? Which year of forgiveness?
And in the valley, he waits, in a land of storms.
those whose killings are arranged by supposed terrorists are not chosen without reason; but it is generally impossible to be sure of knowing these reasons.
A theatre, a concert, a sporting event; these are words written on 9th November 2015, in a brown notepad, miles away.
The meaning’s in the moment but then you’re always there.
Moving around proves you’re living. How long, there’s nothing else to do.
Up the M5, along the A3, around the seventh roundabout and if there’s no traffic soon you’re there at a destination, then you can enjoy what’s on offer, tonight.
A theatre, a concert, a sporting event and the special fireworks.
Moving around and you’re dying; who can predict the next black hole.
We live and die at the confluence of mysteries.
Hidden interests sup our nous.
Knowing what we think, knowing what we know, we no longer think.
Red poppies in every lapel, yellow stars on every garment. Always marked as in or out.
The usual suspects fail to make the line up. They’re on other business, none of their business.
And in other news.
thus is uncertainty organized everywhere
The palace staged its own coup.
The prime minister fell on a sword.
The Bishop of Contraire issued an infallible edict.
The detective inspector inspected the remains.
The innocent confessed they were behind the plot.
Nothing is true, everything permissible, says the old man as he despatches his assassins, high on dreams of paradise.