Guerilla knitting, turn that shit up. King Street, Sandy Bay. September 2011.
The murkey world of yarn-inspired terrorism is troubling to me. Like a lot of forms of 'new terror', it's the incoherent political message and ideological goal that worries me. With no rational purpose, how might we ever conclude peaceful terms with these brigands?
The Lamentations Of An Icarus, Charles Baudelaire
The lovers of prostitutes are
Happy, cheerful, well-fed;
As for me, my arms are broken
Through having hugged the clouds.
It is thanks to the incomparable stars,
Blazing in the depths of the sky,
That my devoured eyes see only
The memories of suns.
In vain I wished to find
The centre and the end of space;
I know not under what fiery eye
I feel my wings breaking;
And burnt up by love of beauty,
I shall not have the splendid honour
Of giving my name to the abyss
Which will serve as my grave.