Rust is the color of disappearance, the deintensification of metallic solidity. Seen in a different slant of light, rust produces a reintensification of color in the meeting of iron and oxygen, the proliferation of autumn in a congeries of breath, moisture, and steel. On the tongue rust acquires a taste: the bitterness of a disappearance, an evaporation that leaves behind the strange piquancy of material erosion.
'How much can you tweak English before it malfunctions?'
'QAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE': The visual poetry of Mike Cannell
What does it mean for a language to malfunction?
What funds its means? What makes it done for?
First we have to ask: What is the function of language? What is it is supposed to do? And who decides—who assesses its function?
Is language a Paul Klee twittering machine? A W. Heath Robinson fantasmallegorical don’t-shut-your-contraption? A speech balloon animal? Does one’s signs fit all?