From time to time proposals to extermine baboons are promoted, in the attempt to combat diseases.
Even death is historically defined on the globe, life came first, all the green and invisible
will disappear, and the globe will continue, without life it will still exist, life is slight.
Anyone who’s visited the logical garden knows the shame when seeing the primates.
Incest, flashy violence, indifference – all masked behind an inquisitive look.
Laughter and script: man. The hairless monkey that began worshiping amulets.
Taste is creativity’s enemy, said Picasso, and sent, with the wind, towards Chicago some sketches and a maquette for a public sculpture. In culinary city Chicago the figure grew large, fifteen metres and a hundredandfortyseven tonne. The model for the statue potentially the girl with the ponytail, Sylvette David. David wore her hair high because her father had seen a ballerina with a high ponytail and never forgot it. In gangster city Chicago they saw the statue as a bird, a boar, a smug Chicago landlord, an Afghan Hound, or alternatively, a baboon. Some speculated whether it could be Thoth’s gatekeeper colleague on the road to the underworld, jackal-headed Anubis, that was portrayed. Anubis, who weighs the hearts of the dead against feathers, while Thoth notes their good and bad deeds. In jazz city Chicago they eventually played it cool, and the scultpure soon became a landmark, losing many names, becoming The Chicago Picasso, a favored spot to scale for hordes of children and tourists.
Later, in man’s primary produce, trash, the baboon eats. Strutting cynicism’s body part, the ass, as it annotates the exchange rate between us. And if that ass could talk, it’d say: «You’ll be silenced first, I can speak, eat, and shit wherever I want.» It knows no boundaries when it speaks, the baboon, but has a language that reaches its goal, when it sees us seeing it eat, there’s no doubt what it hisses: «You baboon!»
Suddenly, we find ourselves in a surprising scenery: luminously white sandbanks to all sides, weatherworn little trees writhing underneath big open skies. In a tree, a baboon, and when we open the water bottle for a sip, it urinates shamelessly. The baboon prefers the ground to the treetops, you say. Me too. When the sun and the moon shift place, the moon crowns the baboon’s head. The baboon turns triumphantly and shows us its ass. The Moon God moons.
They come in hordes, headed for something. Through the streets, squares, gardens. Across the roads. Stop, up a tree to see, then under the fence, forward. The boundary to man is trash, and the rest stops, by barracks and outposts. Between the savannah and civilisation,
along the ditches, the landfills. They live close. Disrespectfully, like language.