Art bids us touch and taste and hear and see the world, and shrinks from what Blake calls mathematic form, from every abstract form, from all that is of the brain only.

— William Butler Yeats 








The wee mum waited.


Christmas Eve & cowboy hats. 

Me in the money; & she a riot.

Sure – me friends was trouble,

two to me & a ten up hangout!


Sure, you better listen sometimes.


You do a mother & you trouble the Id-factory.

Doll mother want your eye shot out, say factory.


Doll mother, we was your friends!












Kraftwerk – The Robots (1991)


Peter Bies © 2011



2 thoughts on “Id-Factory

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