Or better that we must find now better ways in order to profane. If to profane means to return to common use of man that which has been separated to the sphere of the sacred or of consumption or spectator we could say that the capitalist religion in its extreme phase or stage is created something absolutely unprofitable, which can never be given back to use.
So I have to stop here in order to respect our limit of time. Let me just say, in a kind of semi-ironic, or better semi-paraodic, but finally serious statement, that the profanation of the unprofitable is the political task of the coming generation.
Homage to Hardial Bains (1939-1997) | George Elliott ClarkeBetween shit and Shakespeare,
Shelley lies, and is beautiful.Fucking annoying distinctions,
his pages glister—furious as Aprilwater, intractable—infringing on
public corruption, until false eyesstink. He is precious anything,
knowing history as one long butchery.But you, Bains, you were the bane
of Capital—that sadomasochism,and damned the shit that is money,
and damned that shit called money,impeaching Nietzsche, and clawed
off bankers’ coldly horrifying masks,for you hated medieval-vile police,
and let poems comfort you at night,save for Pound’s acrylic lyricism:
You saw how his lines scummed overwith green slime, bacterial blooms.
He was the Satan of the bad writers.If workers would machine-gun bosses
into bloody pits, we’d never surrenderplushest April, panting coolly in rivers,
nor the garbage-annihilating blossoms.We’d let princesses perish in broken cars,
photographers crawling on them like lice.
Ice Islands
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That control is not to be used, Jamie.
Vincent Van Gogh, Wheatfield with Crows
Winslow Homer, The Gulf Stream
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