{ ... }

 

۞

  There was no message.  Anon. was just a medium.  Everyone is some kind of 'cian …  

  “A musician and a magician, are you?” askèd a lady, drunken eyes yet-with-does.  Does.  Like fingers-and-toes.  

  She could have been dozing off, drunk; her and Anon. were both on the park bench on the unfolding of that particular night.  It was late at night, though, and Anon. had wanderèd from Châtillon-Montrouge, where Anon. was, then, currently, whenever it was, staying with method actors and Situationist artists.  

  Anon. didn't know what to tell her, so instead said: “I'd write you mystical poetry, if you like?”  

  “Please, don't do that,” she replièd, “people shall think we're in love.”  

  Anon. was a terrible poet in Paris.  The actions were so bad that Anon. was forcibly ejectèd from a Situationist commune after being there for three days only.  What could be said about the place?  It was no place at all other than that there were diagrammatic plans on the wall.  

  °These artists° thought Anon..  °There are some real pieces of work in here°  

  These artists, these pieces of work, were real pieces of work.  

  “Never work” was their Situationist motto, « ne travaillez jamais … »  

  “Impoverish the State!” proclaimèd the impoverishèd.  

  °Who writes on the walls in marker pen, especially the toilet walls as well, what they strategically plan to do to force a change in Parisienne society?° wonderèd Anon..  

  {on-the-loo}  

  You would imagine, if you're contemplating, like you do when you're on the loo, what might be contemplatèd if you're looking at planning an overhauling of the city's infrastructure.  

  « Détournement. »  

  Derailment.  

  The Invisible Committee.  

  {murmurings behind closèd bedroom doors}  

  It was a real piece of work.  It was a real piece of work this underhand plan.  They were real pieces of work, these artists, these real pieces of work.  

  There was an equation on the floor, there were plans on the wall.  

۝