With the ingenious
combination pedals

the suppression
of the red-orange bar diagram
leads to the emergence

of a relief of gracious figures, a complex
amalgam of amperes and Schweppes, an orgy
of yellow-green geysers, flanked by thin blue spirals,
behind that a mouth-frothing rising indigo glitter curtain
and in front a plot-less mini-ballet of violet pawns,
so simultaneously elegant and vulgar that no one is bored.
In this cleverly contrived pre-programmed séance
in this magical grotto full of explosions and depressions
and deeply-rooted, high-spirited sprinklers,
in this phantasmagoria, this eccentric festival
of growing fans in increasingly higher Ti-Amo-Tis
in a frenzied swishing potpourri of upwardly shooting
crisscrossing lines lashing each other in ever-increasingly
symmetrical pumped-up demonstrations of amazing strength

the entire horizon then comes crashing down in the dark.

Translation: Diane Butterman