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WELCOME ‘It is to be understood, as a matter of course, that our young people, being in parties of two and two, made the most solemn promises to keep together during the evening, and separated in ten minutes afterwards. Parties at Vauxhall always did separate...’ ~William Thackery, Vanity Fair.

The pleasure gardens of Vauxhall Square were a place to see and to be seen. To seduce and subvert, hide and seek. To meet the ladies and gents who sauntered, the former batting eyelids behind glittering masks, the latter strutting like proud peacocks. A place where all classes and mixes went to exhibit their styles, knowing they would be charmed and gazed upon. This special area of south London with its gardens and fountains and open-air ¦irting, was the order of the day. The beautiful, the young and the fetching went to parade themselves, to peruse the talent, their architecturally-perfect hair draping ringlets over a delicate collarbone and heaving décolletage. The ambience was one nevertheless of the utmost restraint and discreet observation. A glance here, a nod there. For beautiful Londoners, the games of courtship began here.






CONTENTS Untitled 1




Through being cool


Honesty à tout prix




The secret poetry of Appaloosa


Untitled 2


Keep it like a secret


Now I am gone


How I murdered David Bronston






Sie und ich allein


Ode to a Night in male


Maere bringt Schwaere


Secret's Out


Sonne Busen Hammer






Untitled 1 What if you had a secret name that no one knew, a name that I gave to you once, without your knowing it? I tell you all the time, one cannot see one’s self. The only thing that always escapes the gaze is the gaze itself. It is for the other one, that is to say me, to know the way you look when you look at me. How you move your hands when you speak to me. These gestures betray you, but no one else sees them. They say love is blind, but that’s only half of it. The lover is not blind. The lover sees in the eyes of his lover a re¦ection of his own gaze, that one thing he is blind to. Love is a mirror for the way I really am, the way I really want to be. It’s true,

love is narcissistic. My secret self in you. You know me better than I do myself. Not much else ever adds up, I mean, I’m never happy in work, and just yesterday I thought, perhaps I should grow a beard, maybe I could try living in Paris again. Restless. I bought a new coat, it should keep the rain out for a while. Yes, there has always been a part missing, a piece subtracted, broken down, or misplaced... but not with you. Never with you. You know this already, don’t you? Fine. Yes, I remember now: this is the trick - you don’t ever tell me my secret, and I promise to never tell you yours.





A¤air I lied to your face, and into your eyes. My promise-shaped heart made you feel free, alive. The pink of my lips bitten by truth, as honest and sick as dying fruit. Your head leaned back, my hands touched your face; your lost eyes suspended in my space. And tomorrow, my sweet mouth with Desdemona’s care; will blow someone else’s kisses into your hair.



Through being cool I’ll let you into a little secret, cool is NOT; living in east London, wearing skinny jeans nor garishly coloured leggings or plimsolls past the age of 23, deciding one day that you’re a DJ, doing a blog, having a weird haircut which is totally unbecoming, reinventing yourself every month, mutton dressed as idiot at 30, listening exclusively to electronic music all the while pretending not to give a damn. In fact, I can’t think of anything more uncool. The only self-proclaimed ‘cool’ people I ever meet are so unbearable to be around due to their oppressive insecurity and obsession with the short-term ¥x and trying too hard, that I have decided to reject it all. I’m taking a moral stance against all of these deeply uninteresting people with so seemingly much and yet absolutely nothing to say. And that reminds me, cool cannot be self-proclaimed. How do I de¥ne cool? The absolutely e¤ortless, the innate, a fearless consciousness of the self. Someone, who is nonchalant, nonplussed, at ease in one’s own skin and thus has no need to submit to fads of any kind, knows one’s meaning and purpose and can say everything in a look. A naturally occurring, cultured, interested, re¥ned hipster without hang-ups, not necessarily educated but knowledge promotes con¥dence and so is preferred. The crux of the whole thing is con¥dence. Not just a super¥cial, feigned con¥dence that comes from being good-


looking. It needs to be self-assured, unmoveable con¥dence in who you are, what you can o¤er and what you expect in return. You don’t need to be blessed with hotness to be cool but have something, that certain je ne sais quoi, just some little forté to trade on. If all you can muster is the shallow, temporary kind of con¥dence then I would say; If you’re fat, trade on your intellect, If you’re stupid, trade on your kindness and if you’re mean, then trade on your hotness alone. No names, no references, just hotness. And if you’re bald or all three of the above, then you just can’t be cool. I mean, think of the fate that befell poor Samson. Be ruthless, be a fascist and in a last ditch attempt, cull the unworthy friends that drag you and your self-worth down. Cull. Cull. Cull. Who ¥ts my de¥nition? Gena Rowlands. She’s womanhood incarnate. Wardrobe by Ungaro. Cheekbones, model’s own. She smoked in the hottest way I’ve ever seen anyone smoke. A swagger to die for. Embodied the whole feminine aesthetic. A little like exquisiteness incarnate, David Piper. Well, kind of. Next, Karl Lagerfeld. Don’t laugh but I think he’s the only intelligent man in fashion. An intellectual, a savant. Speaks 6 languages ¦uently. Knows himself. Says things like, “The ipod is genius. I have 300,” or “I am made of total egoism.” Coco Chanel said that you can’t teach style, you’re born with it. Well, I say that you can’t teach someone how to be cool, you either are or you aren’t. Or, you go on Facebook. Or you work at Vice.




des scènes classées un blanc cassé par des formes crispées des pas chassés pas choisis un chateau de couleur sang dans le fond font de nous



the unfolding occurred afterwards you are not in the known still

~avec Florian Pretet



Honesty à tout prix Halten Sie Geheimnislosigkeit für ein Gebot der Ehe oder ¥nden Sie, dass gerade das Geheimnis, das zwei Menschen voreinander haben, sie verbindet? Do you believe in absolute honesty in a relationship or do you rather think that it is precisely the secret, which two partners hide from each other, that makes them a couple?

This short but thought-provoking question appeared as part of a questionnaire on relationships, published in Max Frisch’s 1960’s ‘Sketchbook’. The Swiss writer Frisch can in many ways be seen as the master of self-interrogation and re¦ection. Thus, when a young journalist asks him: “Max, are you a jealous man?” he con¥dently retorts that he has written so much about jealousy that he personally couldn’t allow himself this emotion anymore. I believe that his thoughts on love remain utterly pertinent today as I witness questions about honesty surfacing in many relationships around me. These questions always seem to be revolving around the same moral axis: How much do I tell my partner about my inner emotions? Should he/she know everything about


me? Does absolute honesty override the danger of him/her getting jealous? Honesty à tout prix? The contexts in which these issues arise can of course vary a great deal. The question might be most obvious when a couple is beleaguered by an a¤air. If the little tryst was of minor importance for the person engaging in it, should one tell the partner about it and therefore risk the couple’s harmony or should the incident better be kept secret and the partner in the dark? But also in less precarious situations, honesty is always an issue. While sleeping in the arms of my partner, I have dreamt about having sex with another person… If it weren’t for her, I would have kissed this other girl long ago… Should my sweetheart know these things? In Arthur Schnitzler’s ‘Dream Story’, both partners decide to tell each other about their hidden desires and thereby create a jealousy-crisis that almost brings their relationship to an end. If every couple faced questions of this kind, their answers would indeed be diverse. When debating the issue with a good friend, he told me that he would in any case much rather know every wish and the most minute desire of


his girlfriend. He con¥dently asserted that he didn’t believe in the admittedly pedestrian formula, “ignorance is bliss” and that he was in search of a relationship that would be lived in complete truth and honesty. Contrary to that, another friend recently had an amorous adventure with a girl who was in a relationship. At a merry gathering, this girl then decided to become involved with yet another man and was shocked when her boyfriend found out about her mercurialness and threatened to leave her. One might disagree with this girl’s behaviour or one might argue that her acts were a little short-sighted but I don’t think she should be condemned for them. We live in a time, in which the judgment of a religious moral authority that labels ‘adultery' a capital sin has largely disappeared. Today, it is possible to say, as does Judith Butler that, “sexuality becomes open to a number of social articulations that do not always imply binding relations or conjugal ties”. It is therefore up to the individual politics of partners as to how open they wish to be with each other concerning thoughts, dreams and actions. Personally, I hardly believe in honesty à tout prix. It indeed never occurred to me that a good

relationship would consist in knowing everything about my partner. However, I do believe in responsible acting that requires of people to independently evaluate situations and decide for themselves if it is important to share an occurrence or not. In certain situations, it is crucial to be confronted with reality, in others; the details may con¥dently remain obscure. I think that the ability to ¥nd a balance between secrecy and honesty might be exactly the skill that characterises a mature relationship. Being able to re¦ect, evaluate and act accordingly. I think that this is precisely Max Frisch's teaching, conveyed in the questionnaires. He encourages us to make up our own minds and tell our partners things we consider worth sharing but also warns us of the dangers of bearing all. Make up your own mind and be selective in the information you choose to reveal; but good heavens, please don’t tell them everything!





Geheimnis Von allen Fragen auf der ganzen Welt: Welche ist die, die du dich nicht traust zu stellen? Wem stellst Du sie nicht? Und warum?



The secret poetry of Appaloosa I managed to catch up with Appaloosa on Facebook, hoping I would get some top secret elements about their future album, for this issue. If you don't know them, you can check out: (interviewed by Prima disco) B: Hello Appaloosa. (I am B, she is A) A : Hello, wie geht's? B: Good, thank you. What have you been up to these days?

A: I guess you become aware of the fact you are French, when you read a biography on Guy Debord in English! LOL B: Are you into the Situationnist stu¤? A: I used to be. I read all of the ‘International Situationnist’, all the ‘pavé’, to the point where I wanted to kill myself! LOL. It is really dark. Surrealism is way more romantic! B: Who are your favorite writers?

A: Max has been mixing our new tracks. I'm getting ready to move back to the US.

A: Cervantes, Franz Kafka, Gertrude Stein, Dorothy Parker, Jean Henri Fabre, Lewis Carroll… there are many of them.

B: Where are you gonna move out to?

B: Writers you don't like?

A: Wherever I end up landing!

A: Bret Easton Ellis, yuck!

B: Enough with Paris?

B: How come you have ended up singing to some electro music?

A: Just need a change of air. B: Do you feel French? A: I think you become aware of your culture when you live in another country.

A: It all happened accidentally. But the accident turned out good. Shooting star! If it did not happen, I would never have been singing or writing some lyrics. B: What do you enjoy about electro music?

B: How? Missing cheese & wine? A: No, you can get that in the US! Something more intrinsic… B: Edith Piaf? A: No, Edith Piaf you have her in the US!!

A: The excitement during the recording process, the “I got to ¥gure some lyrics to this melody" or the “let's write a love song". I also love the fact you can record at home. And make people dance! B: What kind of computer program does Max use?

B: So what is it? A: I don't know. You should ask him.


AL B: How would you de¥ne your music? A: Shooting star songs that will hit your house! B: What are your references in electro? A: Daft Punk, Neu, Steve Reich, Technotronic's ‘Pump up the Jam', Herbie Hancock's ‘Rockit', but honestly I love Robert Johnson! B: What about Miss Kittin? A: Never heard her music.

I have from that period of time, when ‘Homework' came out, are quite exciting. B: What are they? A: I was living in New York City when ‘Homework' came out, and every time I had a shot of wheatgrass I turned green like Hulk! B: Haha!! Really? A: I realized that every time I had a shot of wheatgrass, the same day I would run into Mike D from the Beastie Boys! He is the ¥rst person who told me about Daft Punk.

B: Peaches? A: I love Blondie's ‘Heart of glass'. Have you seen this photo where she is singing naked and shaved? B: No, would you do that? A: No way! B: Anything you listen to secretly, shamefully?  A: I sometimes listen to this radio station that plays a lot of French ‘varieté’. I always enjoy a song by France Gall or Supertramp. But it is quite depressing programming. This quota thing about French lyrics is a bit abject. B: You are into Neu, one of our best German bands! A: I love them. One of the best bands ever. Super cool. B: Which album of Daft Punk, do you like better? A: ‘Homework'. All the memories

B: Who are the French musicians they listen to there? A: At the time, Mc Solaar, Brigitte Bardot, Brigitte Fontaine, Françoise Hardy, Serge Gainsbourg, Pierre Henry, Stereolab, etc. I went to this music store in San Francisco and there was a French music section. Even things I would not recommend listening to! B: So you said Max was mixing. What do you think of your new tracks? A: If people enjoyed our ¥rst songs, then they will enjoy these new ones. B: Tell me more! Any secret stu¤? A: One is called ‘Mane in the wind', another ‘Patchwork', and we have a lot more new songs… we also recorded a new version of ‘Intimate’. B: Oh I love ‘Intimate', the one on the shooting star! A: Yes. There is also going to be a remix by Johnny Jewel.


AL B: Wow! Glass Candy! Cool! I am glad I have some fresh secret infos for this interview. New songs… a remix coming out… Anything else? A video? A: Yes, the single for ‘The Day we fell in love' is coming out at the beginning of the year on Kitsuné, with some remixes, and there is a video directed by Patrick O Dell, with some people making out in it!

A: Were you a fan of Madonna? B: Yes I was, and Madonna will always be this girl. Punk disco shooting star. First time I saw her, was on the TV show ‘Les Enfants du Rock’. She was singing ‘Everybody’. B: Your songs seem to be a lot about romance?

B: Now tell me what is your secret for recording songs that stick to your head?

A: A shooting star can respond to a broken heart.

A: A special spacious sauce!

B: Since our issue is about ‘secrets’, what could you tell us about that?

B: Are you into ‘the 80s revival’? A: I don't share secrets like this! A: I don't know what that means. I love all kinds of music and Max too. And I certainly feel no nostalgie for the 80s.

B: Are you a secretive person? A: Not really.

B: What about ¦uo? B: Please, tell me something!! A: Fluo is useful, when you need to underline something. B: Have you ever worn ¦uo clothes?

A: I love Coke, I don't drink diet Coke! B: Pornography or eroticism?

A: I used to have this green ¦uo bathing suit, I would wear on the beach with Doc Martens!

A: Pornography. But, it has do be done with respect. There are things you can't tolerate.

B: In the 80s?

B: Like what?

A: Yes. Mid 80s.

A: This one day, I was in a movie theatre that was showing porn movies from the 1930s. There was all this clichéd, x-rated stu¤ with nuns, and with a priest, quite humoristic, and all of the sudden this dog came. I just left! It is insane!

A: What was it like at the time? B: Madonna. ‘Desperately seeking Susan’, a great feminist movie. Fluo is a punk thing, a dada thing, like the Sex Pistols record cover by Jamie Reid.

B: We don't live in the 30s anymore! A: Yeah and soon it will be the 30s again!



Can I tell you something? I think I’m in love with you... But please, don’t tell anyone...



Untitled 2 For secret evidence you can be placed directly under Control. There is data on you, or more precisely, data on the 짜le that has been opened on you since the day you were born into this system, that gives reason to believe you are a threat. You will not have a chance to contest this evidence. You will never know what it says, nor who provided it. To do so would compromise the source of the secret. You can retrace your steps in your memory - indeed there is little else to do while you are under Control - but you will never discern with any degree of certainty who it was that betrayed you; shopped you; gave you over to the Law. Under Control, every aspect of your daily life is regulated. You will be moved to accommodation no more than 200 miles from your nearest family members. You will remain in that accommodation every day between the hours of 6pm and 10am. You will wear an electronic tag at all times. All your movements, visitors, and telephone calls will be vetted by secret o{cials and monitored remotely. Your 짜nances will be frozen. You will be subject to physiological and psychological assessment. You will not move outside a speci짜ed zone which will include a supermarket and a sports centre. You will not lead prayer in a mosque. You have the right to remain silent, but something unsaid has already incriminated you. For more information see the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2005.



Keep it like a secret I segreti sono quello con cui conviviamo in solitudine, particelle della mente e del cuore a cui diamo ascolto, e che preferiamo non divulgare per paura, obiettivi, tornaconto, introspezione, oscurità strutturale.

E’ segreto tutto ciò che le emozioni costruiscono nel proprio sé.

Ogni azione comporta un rischio, i segreti non hanno rischi.

Segreto è contrario di ostentazione, una persona che ha tanti segreti so¤re di più ma può anche sentirsi più sicura. Segreto è contrario di millanteria, ingenuità, attenzione a spi¤erare quello che si pensa di una certa persona, di una certa situazione, di un certo accaduto. Svelare un segreto può essere impresa ardua, rottura di una barriera, attraversamento di un ponte. Segreto può essere sinonimo di discrezione, moderazione, capacità elaborativa del cuore e della mente. Segreto è tutto quanto non attiene alla sfera di pubblico dominio, al contesto sociale e ambientale in cui si vive, portatore troppo spesso di false dicerie, distorsore di’informazione e comunicazione.

Avere dei segreti signi¥ca vivere la propria vita senza che nessuno possa interferirvi, lasciare a noi stessi il pieno controllo di quello che facciamo e di quello che nascondiamo (e che magari rimandiamo solamente!). Tirar fuori dal cilindro il proprio sé implica pieno coinvolgimento, dedizione, assunzione di responsabilità, comportamento consapevole, atteggiamento deciso e diretto, azione e reazione, aspettative. I segreti impediscono l’innescarsi di questa dinamica. Avere un segreto tutto per sé è come sognare, immaginare un percorso onirico in cui la realtà è solo quello sentita e/o pensata. I segreti sono la massima espressione dell’individualismo, la capacità di gestirli, comunicarli e rendere gli altri partecipi è proporzionale al livello di maturità raggiunto, al grado di consapevolezza di sé, al fervore della propria personalità. E’ segreto tutto ciò che viene avvertito come un’esigenza da trasformare in qualcosa di concreto per rendere reale un certo tipo di condizione (quella celata, appunto!)

Segreto è silenzio e introspezione di sé e degli altri, capacità di accettazione per sé e per gli altri.

S¥do chicchessia a svelare un proprio segreto in un momento di partecipazione collettiva, di aggregazione non destinata allo scopo di condividerlo. Segreto è ciò che si può raccontare allo psicanalista o al migliore amico (molto più sano!!!) che funga da tale al momento opportuno. Segreto è il nostro futuro, incerto, misterioso e precario. Segreto è l’agire dell’uomo durante il suo cammino, l’uomo che cammina a testa alta non ha segreti.

twenty one


twenty two


twenty three


twenty four


Now I am gone If I’d known how long it would take to let You go, I would not have stayed so long. Snow-bone breaks took Night by surprise; pain was not silenced in her big black skies. My heart went white, and I swore I had died: Eyes shut, belly open, You picking like ¦ies. Was then I knew to let You go and not to stay so long.  Now I am gone, I am gone; and this world that waited, covered in song.

twenty ¥ve


How I murdered David Bronston Here’s a secret: Sometimes I want to regress. I want to separate into sperm and egg. No, further back, I want to become the friction between a father and mother. I want to become a ball of pure and lustful energy. Here’s another: this one is longwinded and inconsequential. Three years ago I ¦ew 512 miles east on a goose-chase. I had no idea what I was searching for, although at the time I convinced myself it was The Truth. I had less of an idea of what I expected to encounter. Perhaps, I believed I would meet some sort of virginal deity with large globules of The Truth dripping from her lips. What I found was a city badly in need of prophylactic management, much like the city I live in. Whilst in this city of prophylactic mismanagement, I wrote a short story. I named the story’s central character David Bronston. The name was a pointless and pretentious in-joke. David Bronston is a perversion of the name Lev Davidovich Bronstein, which is the birth name of Leon Trotsky. David Bronston is an attempt to appear intellectual. In the story I had myself ¥nd David Bronston’s diary. I referred to David’s diary as a little red book. This was a second pretentious in-joke, one which relied on the ¥rst. In the story I was a hungry voyeur, I drooled as leafed through David’s little red book, as if it was an illicit paperback found in a dusty corner of some chaotic second-hand book store. I made David an emotional wreck. I had him write entries in his little red book

twenty six

corresponding to signi¥cant moments of his life. The entries I had him write were insubstantial, they would pay lip service to these life changing moments, but they would be bookended by mundane routine. Here’s the entry I had David write on the day his mother died: February 2nd, 2006– It was snowing this morning when I woke up. My hair looked like a bush. I had gone to bed just after my shower the night before and had to straighten it out with a wet comb. I decided to wear my grey ¦annel suit to work, there were a few ¦akes of dry skin on the lapels which I removed with my sticky roller. I must remember to moisturise. On the bus to work I overheard a conversation between an unnamed girl and another girl named Shelia. The unnamed girl was on the bus, sitting two rows in front of me, Shelia was on the other end of a mobile. I gather Shelia was disappointed; she had missed the ¥rst snowfall of the year. Shelia, it seems, lives west of the city. It had only snowed in the east. Work was uneventful. I spent the morning photocopying for Ms McAllister. Just before I went for co¤ee, around 11 o’clock, I got a call from my sister. She told me mum had died and that I should come home right away. I said I would and thanked her and then I hung up. After co¤ee, I continued photocopying. I ¥nished the copying just after ¥ve o’clock. Ms McAllister thanked me and said I could go. Before leaving I asked Ms McAllister if I could take the next few days o¤. I told her I was ill. She said yes.

AS After work, I bought an egg and cress sandwich. I took it home and put it in my rucksack along with my overnight things. I put my grey ¦annel suit on its hanger and the hanger inside a suit bag. I walked to the station to catch the 5.20 bus home. The bus took ¥fteen minutes longer than usual because the roads were crowded and covered in slush. The name Ms McAllister was not a pointless and pretentious in-joke. Ms McAllister really was the name of a lady who was once my boss. She was Ms because she was a career lady and a spinster and she commanded respect. The death of his mother was not the only cruel thing I had happen to David. I had him fall in love, between September 2006 and July 2007. I called his lover Theresa and I made her wicked. David wrote about Theresa in his little red book. He was rarely passionate. He would write about watching TV together and then list the shows. He would write about going to moderately priced restaurants together and then rating the menu. He would never mention kissing or any of that stu¤. I had him suspect Theresa of being unfaithful and I had him shrug it o¤. I had him discover Theresa naked with another man in the bed they shared and I had him leave the apartment to sleep on the ¦oor of a friend. And, all the time I was causing these bad things to happen to David, I had him bottle it all up inside, deny his feelings and continue with a semblance of a smile on his face. But this is not the worst thing I had happen to David. The worst thing was still to come. The worst thing was to happen on another snowy February 2nd, this time in 2007. I had David climb onto the roof of the library in the east side of the

city. It had only snowed in the east. I had David sit on the edge of the roof. I had him smoke two packets of cigarettes, forty cigarettes in all, which took the best part of three hours. I had him write a ¥nal entry in his little red book. I had him ¦ing the little red book over his head and I had him ¦ing himself of the roof. In the story, David would ¦ing the little red book with such force that it would fall down the opposite side of the library to the one which he would himself fall down. And this would be the twist of my story: that David would lie, leaking red ¦uid in the snow at the front of the library, while I would be at the back, picking up his little red book. The twist was another attempt to appear intellectual. Here’s a ¥nal secret: once David was sperm and egg. Before that he was a ball of pure and lustful energy. For thirty-¥ve years, he was a network of blood ¥lled wires and muscle that appeared to the rest of the world as an emotional wreck. For a short time he was a ball of guts in leaking red ¦uid in the snow. After that, when they put him in the ground, the ball of guts began to decompose. Parts soaked into the ground and fed the worms and the grass. Other parts, lighter parts, worked their way up to the surface where they were caught by the wind. They ¦oated around in this wind meeting similar particles on their journey. And since they liked the particles they met, they decided to join them. This group of particles would meet that group of particles, and so on, until they found themselves amongst the friction between a father and a mother, and the friction would cause them to collide with each other until they stuck to one another, until they became a ball of pure and lustful energy.

twenty seven



twenty eight

Io Echo- Addicted Appaloosa- Patchwork Candyblasta- Black cloud Dream Police- All goes away Sparks- Perfume Devo- Snowball Snap- Welcome to tomorrow Grace Jones- I've seen that face before Queen of Japan- The winner takes it all Dominatrix- Dominatrix sleeps tonight John Forde- Stardance La Bionda- I wanna be your lover Brigitte Bardot- Moi je joue Cobra Killer- Mund auf, Augen zu East 17- Stay another day Purple Crush- Marry me Ella Fitzgerald- Night and day The Flirts- Passion Francoise Hardy- Tous les garcons et les 짜lles Giuni Russo- Un estate al mare Janet Jackson- Feedback Klaus Nomi- I feel love PIL- This is not a love song No Mercy- Where do you go 10cc- I'm not in love Prince- I wanna be your lover Health- Courtship Pet Shop Boys- One more chance Bodi Bill- I like Holden Caul짜eld Cat Power- Dreams Little Boots- Stuck on you Cazals- Somebody somewhere Devendra Banhart- Carmensita Sally Shapiro- I know Camera Obscura- Keep it clean Artie Shaw and his Orchestra- Nightmare The Ronettes- Be my baby The Virgins- One week of danger Peer Raben- Dark chariot ABC- The look of love Claude Francois- Disco metro The Waitresses- I know what boys like La Roux- Quicksand Delta 5- Mind your own business Rufus Wainwright- Tiergarten Mazzy Star- Fade into you


twenty nine




Confetti Friend, why don’t you and I just take rusting swords and slice the other in half, dip our hands in the confetti and pull out the bleeding hearts. Then we can dress up like clowns, clementine wigs at a tilt, and throw them back and forth. Screaming, mad and stupid. And you can throw ¥reworks to scar my pale cheeks, ¥re-on-¦esh. And I can lob a bombshell at your broken back. You can cackle at the low blows; I can smirk at your limp. We can hop in the same spot until our legs get tired and our heads roar. Why don’t we tear out these secrets and do that.   It would be kinder than this, Friend.

thirty one


Sie und ich allein Ich weiß nicht mehr, wie es an¥ng. Irgendwann waren sie da und konnten nicht mehr ignoriert werden. Vielleicht sind sie immer schon da gewesen und mir nur nie aufgefallen. Wie ein neu gelerntes Fremdwort. Einmal im Bewusstsein, taucht es überall auf. So muss es mit ihnen gewesen sein. Auf einmal habe ich sie gesehen. Es war bereits sehr spät im Jahr. In der Zeit feuchter, kriechender Kälte mit weniger werdendem Licht. Im Versuch des Ausgleichs werden die Blätter falb, bis sich die Bäume schließlich lichten. Jeden Tag kann es kippen. Sie begegneten mir zunächst auf der Brücke. Anfangs immer dort. Morgens, auf dem kurzen Weg zwischen zu Hause und U-Bahn. Ich erinnere mich nicht, ob der erste von ihnen Frau oder Mann, Kind oder Erwachsener war. Erst Wochen später sah ich den nächsten von ihnen. Dann wieder, in immer kürzeren Abständen. Die Dichte der Vorkommnisse nahm zu, wurde entscheidend und schließlich waren sie nicht mehr übersehbar. Ich kenne ihre Namen nicht. Womöglich wissen sie voneinander. Weniges ist mir bekannt. Eines eint sie: Sie sind versehrt. Etwas erschwert ihr Fortkommen. Es gibt leichtere und schwerere Fälle. Ein gegipster Knochenbruch, der vergehen wird.

thirty two

Ein einfacher, aber deutlicher Unterschied der Beinlänge, aus dem ein Humpeln resultiert. Die bleibenden Folgen eines schweren Unfalls. Eine angeborene Deformation ihrer Glieder. Füße, die fehlen. Sie kommen mir entgegen. Ich erkenne sie sofort. Es ist ihr abnormer Gang, der sie zwischen den Passanten herausstechen lässt. Ein deutliches Stolpern, eine schwerwiegende Störung. Manche unter ihnen sind geübter, ihre Bewegungen laufen annähernd rund. Da ist nur eine kleine Unzulänglichkeit in der Art und Weise, wie sie gehen. Ein Defekt, dessen Beeinträchtigungen sie auszugleichen gelernt haben. All den anderen fallen sie kaum auf. Bin ich in Gedanken, werde ich ihrer erst spät gewahr. Wenige Meter bevor sich unsere Wege kreuzen. Ein schmerzhaftes Erschrecken. Mit stets gleich bleibender Heftigkeit fühle ich, wie alle Kraft aus mir entweicht. Ich zwinge mich schneller zu gehen, schaue auf den Asphalt vor meinen Füßen, ¦üstere zu mir selber Neineinneineinneinein und bete, dass es schnell vorbei gehen mag. Mein Organe ¦attern. Ich kann keinen von ihnen je ansehen. Ihre Gesichter kenne ich nur als Ahnung. Und da ich dem Anblick um jeden Preis ausweiche, weiß ich nicht, wie ihre Mienen verfasst sind. Sie mögen anklagend sein, bedrohlich,


feindselig. Manchmal denke ich auch, da sind vielleicht gar keine Gesichter. Dass die Vorderseiten ihrer Köpfe konturierte Flächen ohne Mund und Nase sind. Ohne Ausdruck. Und ihre Augen düstere, müde Höhlen. Sie suchen meinen Blick, das kann ich deutlich spüren. Ich wende das Gesicht ab, soweit es nur geht. Nie verlangsamen oder verändern sie ihren Gang. Ich rechne jederzeit mit einem Ende der Untätigkeit. Und wäre doch vollkommen hil¦os, versuchte einer von ihnen, mich aufzuhalten. Das Wort an mich zu richten. Mich zu zwingen, ihn anzuschauen. Ich male es mir nicht aus. Es fängt wieder an. Die hellen Tage sind vorbei und haben kaum Erleichterung gebracht. Alle Anstrengung schien umsonst. Vor mir liegt die Dunkelheit. Ich fühle die Angst heraufziehen. Ho¤e inständig, dass irgend etwas passiert. Dass mich etwas durch die lange, karge Zeit trägt. Sie sind jetzt überall. An Straßenecken, vor Supermärkten, in Hauseingängen. Ich habe nie mit einem von ihnen gesprochen. Und keiner von ihnen mit mir. Ich sehe sie fast jeden Tag und gewöhne mich doch nicht an sie. Am meisten tri¤t mich der alte, magere Mann. Ihm fehlen beide Beine. Zwei halbe Oberschenkel liegen auf der Sitz¦äche seines Rollstuhls. Auf immer demselben Fußweg fährt er auf und ab. Den Kopf gesenkt, die bleichen Arme

an den Rädern, muss er viel Kraft aufbringen, um an den Bordstein zu gelangen. An der Kante beschreibt er mühsam einen engen Halbkreis und nimmt dieselbe Strecke wieder zurück. Bis zum anderen Ende. Sein Weg hat die Form eines Spaziergangs. Die Anstrengung, die er für ihn aufwenden muss, gleicht dagegen einer Strafe. Ich plane meine Wege, um nicht an ihm vorbei zu müssen. Und ¥nde mich doch auf dem Stück Gehsteig wieder, welches er für sich beansprucht. Als hätte ich keine Wahl. Von unten fühle ich seine schwarzen, wässrig glänzenden Augen auf mir ruhen. Er starrt mich unverwandt, unablässig an. Von meinem Brustkorb bis hinauf zum Kehlkopf spüre ich ein Gewicht. Beschleunige den Schritt. Flüstere die Beschwörung. Kämpfe gegen das Flirren im Kopf. So lange, bis ich aus seinem Blickfeld verschwunden bin. Hinter der Straßenecke übergebe mich an eine Hauswand. Ich hege Zweifel an meinem Verstand. Und wage nicht, andere zu fragen, ob sie sie auch sehen. Das würde Wahrheiten erzwingen. Dass es sie gibt und ich sie ernst nehmen muss. Und mich wirklich zu ihnen verhalten. Oder dass es sie nicht gibt. Und also mein Zustand tatsächlich infrage steht. Ich möchte die Augen verschließen und tue es einstweilen. Sie und ich wissen voneinander. Wir bleiben unser Geheimnis.

thirty three


Ode to a Night in male (or Ode to Crescent and Pipe) My start shakes and with sweet sorry veins A suspense as though quiet like a monk Has dispatched old-fashioned tears into London’s drains For a minute could last; with the player the punk Without jealousy to have what they all got But to delight in the beauty, those eyes and his dress That he, crippled cupid, stunning the breeze In his night time slot Of galaxy black and moonlight ¥nesse Croaking of lovers in full throttled sleaze. David! The very name whistles from tales of heaven and hell To me, the sheri¤ princess, give yourself Adieu! This ¦ight of fancy can cheat so well As for him, I want to deceive myself And the tune this piper plays is to measure, custom made Past the Hackney City farm and over the bridge Down on Broadway market, he is seen On the streets of Dalston he bathes and forever wades Is he a vision of perfection, or just another day ¥lled with co¤ee and cream? Swinging to that 40’s music– cad or creep?

~written with secret contributor

thirty four


Maere bringt Schwaere Warum bringt diese Maere so unnötige Schwaere? Warum rinnt mir das Blut und nimmt mir allen Mut? Es ist die Liebe, die mich quält Und sind die Tage auch gezählt So ist es doch akut nur Mut! So gut es eben geht Verweht Das Elend und der Kummer Und dringt in mich der lange Schlummer Bis ich erwache, neu erweckt Wenn dann das Glück mich neu entdeckt Ich staune und raune Ist es denn wahr- so hell und klar? Ich weiß es nicht, ich trau ihm nicht, ich bin zerronnen, nur halb besonnen Habt ihr vernommen, dass sie gekommen? Warum bringt diese Maere unfassbarste Schwaere?

thirty ¥ve


We all have secrets. I have yours.

thirty six


Secret's Out I keep you a secret so long; you sit at the back of every envelope. In quiet I ¥nd you; a fois gras in my gut; your rages searching for air, wanting to live on the cheap. You had the choice, to spit or swallow. But you continued, ignoring my widow’s grief and guided only by your grudge which gave you muscle. You were unkind. You held me in hands that stank of her still, as I doubled in your standards and held myself in a vice. You, Sir, were not nice. You gave me lice. And mice.

From high leg to highbrow in a single gesture. A costume change, that’s what we are. We talk and talk but never about anything, we laugh, we tickle, eyes like caviar; but when it comes to the crunch you won’t be there. I found you and lost you in the same place, funny how roles are reversed. The way it ended with her was the way it ended with me, if it ever started at all. To and fro. You were meant to be gentle, but you decided to be a Mönster and live your life vicariously (online now!) on myspace. And this is the result.

~written with secret contributor

thirty seven


Sonne Busen Hammer “Let’s start a secret society in that big shadow in the moon,” said the gold star. “Hui,” said the leprechaun in his d4 drawl, “We’ve only got three days before the full moon and then it’s game over and we’ll be turned back into motze balls! Uh Ohhhhh.” “Okay, we go and ask Julian, he’ll know what to do and if we don’t like what he has to say then we censor him with that ‘Fernando Torres Forever’ video and then put a Nikolai post-it note on his turnipclad bonce,” replied the gold star. “But what about the twins? They won’t be able to do their homework if we delete Julian, that low-born clod!” “I may be a liar, but at least I got taste, you little leprechaun, you. I can’t sit next to you anymore because you’re just too smoking hot.” The gold star had to have a lie down. “What’s up besides your hair? Is this a vision or the saturnine sheri¤ princess I see before me?” yelped the chubby barman with delight. Then, he did the

thirty eight

cutest jig in the whole world to express the almost religious excitation of seeing his beloved after an eternity of being banished to the woods with nothing but cherry pie for sustenance. “Of course it’s me, but should desire precede attainment or vice versa? An erdbeersaft and a straw made of liquorice and a fur coat when you get a sec, Coco.” “I’m just an orange toadstool studying fashion and semantics, working in the Outbar, what could I know of such things? Everybody has to be obsessed with somebody. Ehi piccola non è che preferisci una limonata?” “I don’t see anything to drink, this chalice is as empty as my heart. What’s your deal?” asked la petite but perfectlyformed princesse. “Adieu,” dit le petit champignon farouche qui s’est transformé en renard. “Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu’avec le coeur. L´essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."


thirty nine





Anna Caroline


Anastasia Freygang


Anne Laure Keib


Anna Poppy


Aidan Stennett


Anne Waak


Bernard Keenan


Antonio Ciano


Daniel Jerome


Lucas Liccini


Monja Gentschow


Peer Illner


Pavle Ninkovic


Sebastian Ho¤mann


Shauna McGowan


Vauxhall Square w w w w © 2009 London

The Secrets Issue  

Vauxhall Square: The Secrets Issue (Issue 2)