* * * * * *   

*Lyrics 2016/17 
Kunst Haus Wien / Museum Hundertwasser 
curated by Verena Kaspar-Eisert



And Or Not


life: attachment to the swarm
unity, density
swarm leads
swarm secures
swarm selects
stumbling stones
out its own terms
swarm denies inherent thoughts 
beliefs, experiences

lockstep: mind stops
in lockstep, and march!
mind rests, swarm marches  
same distance
same speed
same direction
parallel circuits
no stumbling
no caving
no staying back

tenshun!: big picture
one right clock amongst the wrong is wrong
one healthy amongst the sick is sick  
one steady amongst the mad is mad 
in lockstep! march!
time is round
clock around its time
time around it´s clock
swarm´s power steers
parallel circuits 
the flow of water




    * * * * * *






     * * * * * * 




          *Lyrics, 2015, Projection, Diego Cibelli, 
Museum of Contemporary Art, Zagreb (Cro)
curated by Adriana Rispoli



Time is Round 

And I am standing here

and I am me

am you

am my kind

am your kind

am father

am mother

am children as grandchildren

and time. It is round.



And I am standing here

and I am standing straight

standing stiff

standing upright

and am still the crooked ape within me

and time. It is round.



And my mind is reaching forth

but the higher it stretches

the lower my spine

the bigger my mind grows

the deeper my head dangles

and I lag behind myself

and time. It is round.



And my mind goes ahead

and I cannot follow

I lose touch

the higher my mind jumps

the faster it runs

the further it creeps

the deeper my flesh sinks into dust

from the powder it once arose

and time. It is round.



and my mind moves around

and everything moves

but me

it collects

it arranges

it preserves

it creates

and time. It is round.



And my mind flows along

and becomes straighter

becomes faster

becomes purer

and leaves me behind and I crouch down

and time. It is round.



And my mind floods my low dangling head

and drowns me down to it s ground

and I rest

me, myself

stewing in my own nutritious

and time. It is round.



And there is no beginning without an end

no end without beginning

no stone without fruit

no fruit without stone

no mind without flesh

no flesh without mind

dust into dust

and time. It is round.



And all life emanates from the fluid

all life comes out from the ground

fleshes and juices

me s and you s

my kind and your kind

fathers and mothers

children as grandchildren

crooked apes and lifted heads

and time, it is circling. It is round.









        * * * * * *  







    * * * * * *     



*Tale / Performance  2015, Collaboration with Diego Cibelli
Embodied Resilience, Italian Embassy Berlin (D), 
curated by E. Farina and N. Lippolis




          White Between Blackness


          And in the beginning lies the end. 

               As the day to the night.

               As the White to the Black.

               As the head to the tail.

          But this head is a head without a tail.

          The head eats his tail, swallows it with only one bite of his serrated Jaws, thinks,

          the tail will follow him, burst through his insides, and once again spring out. 

               But it isn t so...

          The tail remains eaten and the head remains tailless.

               And the crying, tailless head thinks:

               Once I was a head with a tail,
               once I was turning around and my true fellow followed. 

               But now...

          What s the use of a head without a tail?

          Who bathes in my light?

          To whom do I offer my shadow? 

               And the head eats his tail and togetherness leads to loneliness. 

               And the head eats his tail and loneliness leads to emptiness. 

               And the head eats his tail and emptiness leads to blackness. 

          And where there is blackness, there is no being. 

          And where there is no being, there is no life. 

          And where there is no life, remains only death.

               And the lonely tailless head rots and dies.

          And as the death is the nothingness, the dead head in the nothingness thinks:

          A head without a tail is nothing. 

          And nothing is empty as death. 

          And the death is as black as the night. 

          The night is as still as the rest. 

          And the dead head rests and hardens to stone. 

               Still and unanimated, as black as the death and as restful as the night.

          And the blackness within him becomes the blackness around. 

          The Earth s core pulls, and Earth s shell pushes, 

          and the stony head tightens. 

               Rotund as a star, fruitless and deserted and stiff like wasteland. 

               Cold ash lays over him, and the tailless head rests.

               Closer to the Black than to the White.  

               Closer to nothing than to being. 

          And the dead stony head thinks:

               Once I was a head with a skull. 

               Once I was a skull made of bones. 

               Once I was bones, made of pure white stardust. 

               And once I was shiny and once I was bright. 

          And now...

               Now I am black and now I am matte .

               And the matte dead head thinks:

          But where Black is, there must be White. Like the day to the night. 

          And where White comes upon Black, where the dry meets the wet, 

          where black rain the white light, a rainbow breaks through, 

          between the earth and the sky. 

               And a rainbow is coloured. 

               And colours are variety. 

               And variety is plentiness. 

               And plentiness is life. 

          And the dead head revives. The unanimated becomes animated.

          And the dead head blooms. 

               And the blooming head thinks: 

               Thinks the head, is the head.

          Am I head, am I life. 

          Am I life, am I light. 

          Am I light, am I colour.

          Am I colour, am I tail: 

               Violett. And Blue. Green. And Yellow. 

               And strong pumps my red heart deep inside. 

          And the red heart pumps. And the pumping heart beats. 

          And the pumping heart-beating head speaks:

               A colored tail shall grow out of me! 

               Because I am head and I am tail. 

               And when I turn around, my true fellow follows. 

               Like every mass around it s core.

               Like every fruit around it s seed. 

               Like every clock around it s time. 

          Because I am head and I am colour. 

          And if I sow colours, plentiness will grow. 

          And if I sow plentiness, diversity will sprout: 

               Fruits and grasses. Moose and ferns.

               Black and White and Purple for good.

               Fins to legs and legs to wings. 

               Because I am  the head and the head harvests life.

          And in the end lies the beginning.






* * * * * *











* * * * * *




*Lyrics, bugs and bones, Flaneur Magazine, 2015, Berlin (D)


bugs and bones 
by L.C. Messina

get your guide partisants

welcome to the colony



welcome to the liberators

three-part bodies, elitists

bugs and bees

ants and friends

businessmen and activists

hoppers, skippers

queen, males and workers

fascists in lockstep

damned set of vipers

left, right, left


right, left, right






* * * * * *














* * * * * *



*Textabstract, Fisch frisst Fisch,
artq13, Rome (ITA), 2014


Fisch frisst Fisch

Ich drücke grün. 
Ich trete ein. 
Ich ziehe, ich zupfe, ich öffne, ich schließe, ich halte, ich lege, ich hebe, ich greife, ich drücke, ich drehe – ich entsorge.
Ich drehe, ich halte, ich nehme, ich wringe, ich wasche – ich entsorge.
Ich wringe, ich wische, ich trockne, ich tupfe – ich entsorge. 
Ich wringe, ich stülpe, ich ziehe – ich entsorge. 
Ich öffne, ich schließe, ich schiebe, ich presse – ich entsorge.
Ich wasche – ich entsorge.
Ich wische – ich entsorge.
Ich trockne – ich entsorge.
Ich wechsle, ich streiche, ich schließe – ich entsorge. 
Ich schwitze – ich entsorge. 
Ich entsorge. 
Ich entsorge. 
Ich entsorge.
Im Heim entsorge ich, daheim horte ich. Horte Unrat, horte Keime. Im Heim kontrolliere ich sie, daheim kontrollieren sie mich: Keime, Mikroorganismen, Ungeziefer. Sie belagern und bedrängen mich, und doch stören sie mich nicht. Ich beginne, vertraut mit ihnen zu werden, beschließe, mir selbst beseelte Organismen zu erschaffen, sie sollen mir Gesellschaft leisten, sollen mir Originalität vorgaukeln, gute, gleich getaktete Gemeinschaft. Ich generiere mir Primitives aus einfachsten Primitiven, lasse biochemische Vielfalt künstlich aufleben. Sie soll Zeit und Raum mit mir teilen, baue Schaben, baue Maden, dehne, strecke, stauche, färbe ein. Ich generiere mir einen Hügel, gewähre einen Radius und lasse Leben aus ihm schwärmen. Schwarzbraune schiefergraue fein gezackte halbringförmige Wahrheit, ich generiere mir Panzer, Schreitbeine, Spaltfüße und Schwanzplatten, ich generiere Geißeln, Haare, Fasern für Ein- und für Mehrzeller, baue Kriecher, baue Flügler, baue Springer, baue Läufer, derb und verhärtet, flaumig und zart, ich definiere Texturen, zeichne, fülle, invertiere, Zangen, Hinter-, Deckflügel, Stummelfüße, Kieferhaken, Springerbeine, sie sollen sich an mich kitten, sich an mich kuscheln und mir die lästigen, verwaisten Gedanken beiseite räumen, sollen mich als Stockmutter, als Angelpunkt ihres Daseins sehen – ich kreiere Großes aus kleinsten Primitiven. (...) 





* * * * * *












* * * * * *




*Tale (Text-Performance), The Relationship Process, 
B.E.A.R - Bucharest Intern. Filmfestival, 
curated by Ioana Paun, Diego Cibelli, Bukarest (RO)



One Whispers
by L.C. Messina



– Well, well, old life, one whispers you were extinct? –

– One whispers? –

– One whispers. Eaten up, digested and excreted! –

– One whispers? –

– One whispers. Oh my, old life, you had it tough! And now you´re dead. 

  Extinct and nothing will ever come after you. –

– One whispers? –

– One whispers. But look, old life, even the encounter fares no better.–

– The encounter?–

– The encounter. The poor little soul had been locked up. Isolated. In a rough dark cage. 

  They gaped at him as to an old odd ape. –

– One whispers? –

– One whispers. And all at his own the poor little soul died. –

– Dead? The encounter... poor little soul. –

– Stonedead. And nothing comes ever after him.–

– Nothing? – 

– No, nothing. Nothing and nothing at all. 

  The poor soul was said to be wild in his head, unable to raise its own brood. –

– One whispers? –

– One whispers.... As dead as you are now, old man! –

– Oh my... once I was alive and once I was thinking I were rosy. Well, sometimes I felt a slight twinge in my neck and sometimes the old skin shivering, but I never meant anything bad by it. I gritted my teeth and marched on...– 

– One whispered... one whispered.... –

– But look, I have still so much to give! –

– To give... to take.... –

– Why? Isn´t it all about giving and taking? For the greater? The greater good? The giving, the taking, the we, the us, the networks far beyond herds, the exchanges far beyond packs, symbiosis, metabolism, diversity. Isn´t it, what life is supposed to be? Isn´t it all about the encounter? –

– One whispers... one whispers...and one whispered your time is up, you know the rules... –

– I know... I know... well, I knew... I knew them all.–

– You did old man. You were told to march and you always marched. Forward, and march!, and you always went ahead. Turn over! And you turned, old life. Kept always in step, kept always the distances.–

– Always Forward. And now I am dead. Ejected out of myself. – 

– Don´t be that hard on yourself, old life! –

– But life is hard! Said life, when life was still alive. And now I see, I was just a tooth in the big turning wheel. Always rolling... always speeding up.... Forward, and march! Moving! And all around moves. A tooth engages to the next, a  gear into another, a watch set to all watches and the eternal time, the old lady, moves forward. –

– Time? –

– The big old lady... the eternal everlasting time! –

– Well, old man, you know, the old lady is dead as well. One whispers, time stands still.–

– One whipsers, the old lady stands still? –

– Dead-still! One whispers, the old lady ran cold.–

– Cold? The eternal circling time? –

– One whispers... one whispers.... –

– But what´s next then? No encounter. No time. No life. So tell me, what remains then? –

– Well, old life... – nothing! –

– Nothing? –

– No. Nothing. Nothing and nothing at all! Not even a little whisper. –

– Not even a whisper? But what is it supposed to be, this big, huge nothing? –

– NOTHING. Just me, the bittersweet, big hole full of nothing. One whispered, only I am everlasting. One whisperd, only nothing is everlasting! –

– ONE whispers? YOU whisper! How dare you, standing here with your proudly swollen chest! You are a Good-for-nothing! Once I was big and once I was healthy, once I was alive and once I was everything – and You were just nothing! And now I whisper: nothing ever lasts forever – so not even YOU! –

– Don´t be ridiculous, my friend. You said nothing ever lasts forever and I AM NOTHING,  I am a whole lot of nothing. Nothing but death. So, only I am everlasting.... –

– Dead right: you ARE a whole lot of nothing. But you´re not everlasting.... –

– I am not? –

– No, my poor dearly nothing, you are not! One whispers.... You whisper.... I whisper.... Everything is just a hearsay. If I believe there is nothing, there will always be nothing and if I believe there is something, there will always be something, everything, and if I whisper nothing remains nothing, everything will spread out of nothing, everything will rise, everything will grow out of nothing: diversity, prosperity – the bigger the lack, the bigger everything gets. The deeper the hole, the higher everything spreads. I will eagerly swallow, digest and excret you, fertilize myself with you – and time, the old lady, will always circle around, because I am life and I am everything. And now, dear fellow, farewell. One whispers, I need to move on... –




* * * * * *















* * * * * *