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IN FAMES HOUS, FULL OF TYDINGES/ BOTHE OF FAIR SPECHE AND CHYDINGES/ AND OF FALS AND SOTH COMPOUNED
IL: ah, dear, nothing you are doing is new. you are worn & distorted, transmitted & lost with each iteration. you are a repeat, a repeat, repeat.
ELLE: but, the organization of man is circumscribed within certain types of limits. repetition is inexorable. with the passing of time, all sounds find their way into the complex illusion and deceit of the haus of fame. everything, however mutated and defaced, is subject to the illogic of lady fame. i am a repeat, a repeat, repeat.
(the incapacity topos is the notion of the poet saying outright that he no longer knows how to furnish all the details.
he is helpless, and no longer afforded any choice other than to resign his doomed undertaking of Control.)
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