Poetry lies, and that's at the root of the modern problem because the image itself bears unidentifiable verses torn apart from the joints of time and cannot tell lie or truth, at most it's able to evoke and in the passing moment of it the revelation is upset and no longer beset with that necessary turmoil for the journey back and forth in between men and world; at best Beings run the show but no one has sighted them yet other than the philosopher's God - that formless identity that created the world once and bequested the management to the powers that be, in lying poetry has hindered the possibility for the world to create itself anew at the moment of birth or passing which today is termed motion, consequently timely change is perfunctorily performed by confusing facts that attack the newspapers and befall a serious world that cannot reflect, it cannot laugh without being serious, sense in which Modernity resembles Athens more than freedom, and the collapse of the experience was not the flight from reality of Idealism or the legitimating philosophy of Modernity but that extermination camps; whereby willy-nilly the clock turned backward and humankind began anew without a beginning in the myth or an end in the railways... dangerous contingency that words can only but alienate even more so that experience today resembles some kind of chemical thing that sells for not so much.
The thinker loves and cares for the world, but at most he can be an inker... to leave bothersome marks in the map of the urbanized unkindness, he can no longer bind the arks. In the age of poetic lies he cannot leave the self altogether and drowns in a form of melancholy which the moderns call philosophy but that is at the same time hardly faithful to its origin and moreover cannot exemplify the human truth of Gods and poets, because this in itself was removed to a total disrepute bordering on demise and replaced by a scientific language in which beauty can no longer be grasped as an object, therefore the ultimate aim of good blurred altogether in the subjects that the philosopher grasples but remains trappled in Beings, mirroring images and wonders offered by the world's uncanny way to present itself. Poetry lies, my poetry lies, therefore all philosophies leave through the back door and what comes home to roost with poetry isn't truth but an image that desires, desires an interpreter but he in himself cannot tackle with objects which for the sake of clarity, beings are not.
The image in our days is called technological nihilism and does not spring from totalitarian ideologies or modernist tendencies or perverted morals, it stems in the problem of Beings, formless artifacts that dwell on artificial soil, that of the uninterpreted image, not even misinterpreted. Brecht, why did you lie?