http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ieTuUQTqe0w
“Nothing is lowlier than the bourgeois sack, that quivering mollusk that eats at one end and shits at the other!” grins the old avant-gardiste. “It hides its shame behind obstinate toil and can only enjoy cruelty! It dreams to be a wreck on the strings of meaning, the flaccid vesicle, but still wakes up to find its sheets stained by shameful discharges, ha, ha, ha! And you can see all its thoughts running through that translucent tract, it’s nauseating! There is no higher goal than blocking this sack's accumulations, strangling its over fertile productivity and being useless!” she cries, covered by monochrome sound.
And indeed here is one, holding her delicate pink viscera with one hand and dancing with careful abandon; then the others come out, marshalling their output of ecstasies, traumas and commodities in cadence with the rusty typewriter. The relentless flow of letters marks the flesh, soothing as a lullaby, gagging for a moment the mourning mouths in the pit of the belly. But the amnesia is never completed, the menacing shapes reappear, wavering at the edge of the retina; so they lock themselves in the safety of cars and move orderly, like moths whose eyes secrete light, each one an armored dot in the tragic swarm.
Then the valves are overrun, the electric barriers are shot and oily, pungent flows come out, the body shrunk and overblown randomly, the vocabulary a desperate algorhythm of repetitions, the mouldy cavities drowning, until the steel rhythm starts again, calming the convulsions into disciplined reverberations.
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