Rather Than the Figures, My Eyes Sought the Plinths

September 9, 2008

Berlin Chronicle Cut-Up
(and by) W. Benjamin


Mysterious work of remembrance,
the capacity for endless interpolations into what has been,
memory is not an instrument for exploring the past
but its theatre:
this cult of nothingness,
this dark joy of the place
of the finding itself.

Words have remained in place of catastrophic encounters
-certainly the peacocks could not console me.
after some time they branch off these corridors
a crude, extravagant ornament
drawing a diagram of my life

To your finger constantly encircled,
the treasure-dispensing giant.
I have evolved a system of signs;
obstinate and voluptuous,
hovering on the brink,
loitering at the rear,
at the back of beyond


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