Ref.:  'The Contest'   


Q.: Don’t weep, Spielzeug, it’s so disparaging. You should have gotten used to it by now. You’re an eternal reject
       and that’s your autobiography. The tedious story of a serial failure. The Author really has no gift of fantasy
       when he comes to you.
A.: I cannot believe it’s been screwed up too. The greatest occasion fate has ever offered. Better than the Iceland 
      Rally. And how much easier. It was the miracle I’ve been waiting for since twenty years. I perceived the
      option as a private call sent out to meet up at last in style. Reaching out his hand to grab. A precipitated 
      incident under the Cosmic Bargain’s protective surveillance. No chance to fail.
Q.: Hundreds of other fans must have felt the same. And are the same desperate as you are right now. You have 
      entered a competition of improbability. A most familiar terrain despite the mythic seemings. Luck has never
      been on your side. And you’re reluctant to push it.
A.: I have tried everything to stand out. Though could apply but once, I’ve eMailed my lyrics in various aliases. 
      Both the single and the tryptichal formats. Moreover sent it by post to his management lobbying for illegitimate  
      forwardment. Marked with S-O-S. Recommended by pink card. Even called them to inquire whether they have
      received it. A large red envelope with Black Mail stamped on it.
Q.: No, they haven’t. That’s the answer you got. So you said sorry and hung up. Not a word of solicitation. You see
      what a miserable beggar you are? Can’t speak up in your own defense. Shame and humiliation has been the 
      share of your posthuman existence. The Pechvogel has landed.
A.	It would have been harassment to call again. So I gave it all over to the psychic powers. Practicing the grey magick of oblivious distress. Even burned a candle on the day of judgement. But everything in vain. The call
remained unanswered as usual. Isn’t it simply impossible?
Q.: Your individual mythology never had a chance in the magnetic fields of the hazard. You are a natural fatality of 
       fatalism. Obsession is the last thing you possess. And don’t even miss it.
A.: I am sincerely very sorry, darling. I have suffered the ultimate fiasco and am most ready to admit it. ‘The 
      Contest’ has been my tenth major attempt of approaching the Starman from the self-imposed exile. Finally a
      rational opportunity out of the black. There won’t be an eleventh one. I won’t do it again.
Q.: I’m afraid you will. As long as he lives you are not alone. He is the one you love, the sum of all the others. 
      Bryan Ferry is just a flirt for you when thinking of the Bride. He’s been your raison d’être ever since your 
      maladroit rock’n’roll suicide. Everything you do, you do it for him. You never really wanted anybody else. How
      does it feel to be a Platonic disciple?
A.: I saw him on video with the winner. Putting his arm around him as I should have done. This jealousy will kill 
      me. My lyrics were much better, I can guarantee that. They might never have gotten through the administration. 
      It’ll remain an unsolved mystery.
Q.: It’s better to think so than feeling jilted, hm? And what about if he didn’t like your bleak caveat of gloomy 
      epigony at this particular hour? You are a straight shooter but disqualified to aim. A monster of Za-Zen. The
      harder you focus the wider you miss the target. The mainman wasn’t gesturing for a satellite to shine in his 
      bright shadow here. He needed a most innocuous collaborator. He could have recognized you as a vicious 
      parasite in the waiting. Someone to avoid like a plague. A surely insane lad. An idiot lover.
A.: In any case, it’s over and out. I have to reconcile with the extended confinement. No travelogue to New York 
      City. No first price to have my teeth repaired. No work affair. Osh let me down again. Another proof for his 
      stark nonexistence.

                                                                      
Q.: Maybe the triad was a too ambitious stab. You’re always offering three for one of anything. What kind of
       a merchant are you trained to be? Your generosity is demonstrably anti-capitalist. Cannot get to the point  
      without a triangle?
A.: Not at all. The texts would very well do independently. The idea was to distribute the album with various lyrics
      to the cybersong. A marketing trick. A potential sales booster. Let the buyer tip the pick. Collectors would hunt 
       for three copies. The Tryptich could later be released as a single remix. It is a pity that the tune isn’t his best. I 
       had to ride a lame horse.
Q.: What a genius of advertisement is buried in your hungry heart! A politicized Edward Bernays. Your approach 
       was an immodest offensive rather unconcealed. And your moody blues was way too pessimistic. Margining the 
       cynical. Just darkness and dismay. It gives no answer to his actual question.
A.: That couldn’t be the problem. I’m depicting the frozen moment very accurately in 78 syllables. The striking
      death of time. Where we are at. What everybody knows but shuns to tattily say. A radically romantic protest.
      Almost violent.
Q.: Don’t you quite overestimate the emotive value of your banal nursery rhymes? They show nothing but another 
     doomsayer from the wagon. Letting everybody down for no reason at all. Nihilist propaganda for the disengaged. 
A.: Just on the contrary. My entrance is deeply uplifting and full of resolute nostalgia. As objective as can be.
      These words don’t accuse or promise. The solution is self-evident. That’s where the diamond dog lies buried. 
Q.: Still it could be a lot less regressive. Indicate some constructive revolt. Entice the listener against the unnamed.
      Not only sharing off the collective emptiness. No cheer for the horde. We’ve been there before.
A.: It wasn’t my job to tempt the deceivable. Mine is the Anticredo. The Zeitgeist has abandoned us and the beauty 
       prefers the beast. No juncture for another Hallelujah. My wedding serenade is an Atheist anthem. An invitation
       to the absolute supper.

                                                                                              
Q.: Poor old DJ Helmut, what an ambitious candidate we’ve gotten! I wouldn’t swear on the efficiency of your 
      grandiloquent rhetoric. Words make no sense without knowing who speaks them. That’s the riddle of Anonymus.
A.: This wonderful plausibility has provided me an unprecedented status. To be unknown was its preconditional 
      merit. No longer the main handicap. I didn’t have to say anything revealing. Only repeat what have heard 
      before with no ego at play. It was an exemplary work of espionage. 
Q.: You are not an intuitive lyricist but a misplaced mechanic searching for function everywhere. Useless
       symbolism is the devil’s parlance. Whatever happened to the Russian Kamikaze? Forgot your duty to the  
       imperfect present?
A.: I must confess something to you, Gina. I never really meant those identities. I was a liar and I’ll always be. A
      pretentious wannabe. I always thought now was for ever. That’s how I overaged from daring punk into a junk
       rocker. My program did not serve me well. Timidity has overcome my wildest ambitions. I would never have 
       taken a voluntary risk. My mistakes came from above. My barricade is raised to hide behind. This sudden 
       momentum was my saving grace. I will never get over it. Nothing remains but the pain of survival. 
Q.: Thank you very much for the inauspicious prospect. Whatever’s your excuse, I‘ll never forgive you this 
       blamage. Our next month’s rent depended on it. If I were your wife, I’d divorce you right away.
A.: I am a miscreant prototype of the dilettante traitor, let’s face it. A true son of the silent age. He would have 
       downloaded it if there was an eighth sense. He’s my soul brother.
Q.: Shut up yammering and listen to me. This is no reason yet to give it wholly up. Get off the floor and stand back
       on your feet. You have no right to disappear without a trace. We must go on wherever it leads. The red star 
       shouldn’t turn black too soon. 
A.: The sad news is that I have no impetus left. I’m a trembling man profoundly disinterested in taking liberties.
       My ideology is too autocratic. I cannot step right up without any guarantee. Fame and fortune would be good
       but I’m not gonna pay the price. To get lynched is none of my priorities. My revolution happens in a cupboard. 
       I’m innocent of strategic thinking. Would never challenge a giant. 
Q.: Your gratuitous self-pity won’t eliminate the offence of negligence. In order to defeat it, you must call the enemy
       by its name. Could you tell whom are we fighting in plain lingua franca, Spiel!?
A.: Oh, yeah. Nothing’s more crystal clear under the Sun. The enemy are the mortal majority. The subhumanist
       patrons of the criminally insane. Christian democracy versus moral dictatorship. Take that or leave me.
Q.: Endearing declaration from a confined saloon-warrior. It excludes more than half of the world’s 
      overpopulation. You’d better come up with a smarter innuendo to persuade the new elitarians. Who should cast 
       a ballot for a deranged idealist? Mishima had at least some military training.
A.: That’s exactly why I needed his protection, you see? To hang out with him as an enigmatic friend. ‘The Contest’
       was my potential catapult. I cannot do a thing without his blessing. Nor would I like to. Only he could save his
       saviour. Not the Pinball Wizard.

                                                                                           
Q.: Shame on you, 888, and your legendary incompetence. What nutty lass would tie knot with such an enervated
      groom? The UR you’re fantasizing about is only your perverted association. The lovely bands you’re playing on 
      your lousy radio show are not your distant friends. Their thriving on decay is sheer publicity stunt. The big idea
      of grey supremacy is outright insult for the hypocrite genius. The last thing they want to kill is crime.
A.: Nothing but Overnational Socialism has the progrom (!) to reverse the free wheels of dead time. Multiracism is
      poised to overcome the corporate justice system of degenerated capitalism. I am a conservative futurist. A
      nationalist globalitarian. A man of many contradictions. But my hate record is clear and clean. I’ll never undo
      the Mussolini.
Q.: I’m glad you say so but don’t see no reaction. Just a melancholic recluse shedding reptilian tears in his safe 
      cell. Too proud to admit his own misdemeanour. The Bride is not a Vampirella of the Noontide. They’re not 
       what they sing about. They promote bloodbath but condemn death penalty. They feign misanthropy but 
      denounce abortion. They conjure disaster but are concerned about climate change. Their majestic death cult
      will never accept the notion of The Building. The imaginary subject of your plain desire is the devil in a blue 
      dress. Don’t believe the hype.
A.: The annihilation of the wicked is no bloody gore. But rapture of the highest echelon. The Judgement is a 
      scientific experiment. It’ll require lots of artificial intelligence. The development is arrested by its own 
       prodigies. We must attain immediate class-consciousness.
Q.: You are a deviant con artist on every conceivable account. Running for the extreme middle with no stamina
       for manipulating either side. A skeleton behind the veil. The most appalling apparition of the truth in the nude.
A.: I always wished to be a Joy Division bassline. So minimal and forcible. I’d never intend to change anybody’s 
      mind. The Atheist Church is not a charitable organization. Saving is not my business. I’m a punisher by
      avocation. All I ever wanted was to end the massacre. No more Hell.
Q.: That would be a good note to end this devastating discourse. The same as it ever was. We didn’t get any farther
       from the source. The everlasting cradle of the immature beginner longing to belong. I think it’s better for all 
       of us that the project’s cancelled. I’m used to it by now but he wouldn't like your tone. You are a plague of The 
      Party, not its disappointed leader. Your happy home is way behind the scene. If you just were David Icke who’s
      at least well-informed! You are the one who really has no clue what’s happening. Son of a Liar.
A.: My territory is the final solution. I’m not fascinated by ancient ruins. All I’m preoccupied with is the escape 
      plan. I’ve made it for the Earthling. But can’t hand it over. That’s my life. The same ordeal over and over 
      again. Definitely the worst book ever written.