Meandering under a greasy moon
An unctuous lunar ellipsoid
Baleful and buttery
Up: pustular corpse-eye
Down: polyvinyl fondlings
Rubber bullets; wobbly bass
(Read: pert tits; glitch)
Blue attic nights
In which the blue glows sexily
And drones ecstasy
We know weaponry
We throw destiny to the loups-garous
Sensors and metrics and Fidel Castro
Are the future
Arm the neutered
Sepulchrally reboot spongy gray operating systems
Or snort rails of Haitian zombie powder
While watching Roller Blade
Or The Undertaker and His Pals
Or Peter Scully’s appeal
Fuck the lot of them
Their sad sacraments
(The blue of video stores circa 1994)
Barthelme smeared the moon
He had issues with the moon
Our only jumbo night-light showcasing
– illuminating wanly –
All nocturnal earthly horror and miracle
Waves and menstruation
What a meddlesome cosmic ovoid
Coffins rattle around inside my skull
Like a maraca of bone
Let us prey…
On our natural satellite
[DONALD! FUCK YOU!] Star reference: 27 and 1/3
Diameter: 3475 meters kilo
238,900 miles from the blue attic
And still a motif
At that distance
About the girl in the attic: she appears ageless
90 or 9 – who knows?
Anemic and elfin and polyvinyl-hoodied
Likes kitchen-sink magic realism
From Massachusetts probably
That’s only speculation though
She could be made of porcelain for all I know
Green brie/celestial bod
And elegiacal brooding
Brood king elegy
The gradations of an outsider art –
I would read suicide notes as verse
Natural disaster aftermath as organic installation
I would read a schizophrenic hobo’s lice-mealy handscrawled autobiography
I would watch amateur porn and look for fluky symbols
Unintentional abstruse subtexts hiding in rutting creeps
Do not suffer pitiful mannerists like Lin Tao
Anyone can do Lin Tao: e.g., I need to check email… this is stupid… a koala ate Chris Penn’s chin off… I laugh and feel bored
An antidromic hike into an ahistorical past is needed
Aikido for rapists; destabilization happens, essentially
Campy blue UFO light
Looks like a straight-to-video erotic thriller from the ‘90s
Fafnir roars in UHF
I want death by band saw
I demand death by band saw
Goodnight, you pursuers of jackal delirium
1) Ich forch
They are like my choosers, the world is a cup of hellfire
It is my church, my clientele, my bed, my family
by the talent of and patron of those skilled in
The master of the furies holds his guns, with his paper’s
I kill these people and I keep them alive
for the tricksters, for the artisans and every day
David Rothko’s Remake of the Bible
You might remember how within hours of David Rothko’s Remake of the Bible being released, everyone was asking each other who the lover he had named “Melissa” might be, this openly acknowledged pseudonym weaving her way through the rise and fall of each chapter. All the sensitive young men (as well as a good number of shit-headed ones and more than a few lesbians) were ready to fall in love with her, which felt like an implausible but statistically mentionable possibility for those in social circles adjacent enough for her to have been cast into, since of course Rothko had had to promptly shed her the way a red carpet dress must be discarded once the commoners have glimpsed it.
You’ll want to be able to Dr. Frankenstein a few of the more prominent takes on this matter together into something resembling an original one, so as to perpetuate the smokescreen the whole affair serves as, but should otherwise attempt to remain fully unconcerned with the gossip.
Your attention will need to be focused on posture. Whether on the bus, in the cafe, among socialites, in the bedroom, you must be able to optimally frame* the book’s cover, its wash of blue, green, orange (each in several shades) and most of all the incredibly chic reflective pink lettering.
*“Optimally frame” here doesn’t mean to simply draw attention to the book (it does that well enough on its own), but to direct this guaranteed attention in such a way that people notice how you’re reading it. The way the lettering brilliantly ricochets light may also be used for hypnosis or as a weapon, if one finds the right dark web tutorials.
Once you’ve fully mastered the work’s distractive properties, you can begin to drift through those subtle passages where Rothko threads associations between the crush of objects we all find ourselves surrounded with, building not quite a hierarchy but something not particularly distant from one either, undoing 1) Jesus’s dissolving of Hebrew law into an existential demand to love and 2) Peter’s subsequent ecstatic vision where he reinterprets this dissolving as invitation to consume every part of the world at leisure.
Colossal lifeflown forms hang
decomposing just below cloudlayer.
Needle scrapes through spine,
(Felt in teeth, soft hiss of administration,)
breaks vision into messy viscera.
Januarys voice degrades to tatters,
a static slush in your ear.
Eyes shutter to black, red sand
rushes to meet collapse.
January is a hollowed icon imprint.
He wavers in the heat.
Head a cracked mollusk shell
blooming raw flesh.
Gore dripping up towards heaven.
Messy splinter of smile.
Full ironsmoke night when you wake.
The Emitter now glowing on the horizon,
teeming with life, slow bass pulses:
dragging sand behind them cross plains.
From every icy dot torn in the skies flesh
god stares hungry, pearl light batters clouds.
Start moving shaky towards heaven.
Small pillars grow larger,
jut from the desperate ground.
Grow into a forest.
When you reach the other side
Dawn is bleeding up into cotton fever sky.
The Emitter lies before you.
Great hollows in its flanks catch the sun,
intensify it to melt-dripping glass honey.
White hot drool sears through eyelids.
Bent light, smeared gravity.
Isotope washed pulses pass through you,
feel flesh ripple, gods hand through
a curtain of beads. Your shadow printed on air.
Far above you the sun is grated
by lacy-thin fibrous lungs.
Each breath causes the shards of light
to flow across your skin, the stony landscape.
Each breath sounds like icebergs ground to slush.
January’s tongue billows behind shattered teeth.
Sloppy iron drools from the holes in his neck.
Words bubbling, messy clatter of ruined throat.
Your boot embraced by splayed ribs.
A circle of wings in the sun above you.
See the hollow light flickering above his eyes.
Behind your eyelids the Emitter blooms.
Quivering, a multitude of taut strings, high tension
Silver pearlescent tongues strumming flesh:
Ache, phosphorous, wet muscles writhe round bone.
Icy light envelops you, pushes desperate
through grain of iris, snakes down optic nerve
Sifts through you, your past, the belt snaps,
lays visions out, spinning disorientation,
tangled snapshots bleed color into the air,
moments hanging to be tasted.
The clouds pass before blank eyes.
Long moments stretch on the sand.
January’s voice still in your ears.
I was stepping off the Ferris wheel when things started unraveling. Amelia noticed it first. She touched my shoulder at the turnstile like have your arms always been that long? And I realized I could touch my knees without bending over and my elbows were slipping downward under my skin.
I became concerned and said holy fuck holy shit what the fuck. Amelia sort of smiled and I wondered if maybe we had fallen asleep or snorted three hundred milligrams of methoxetamine. But really we were just on the pier which made me start to panic. Meanwhile my shoulders were oozing past my nipples and my fingers fell lightly onto the damp dirty wood by my feet.
I got sick to my stomach and I needed to move or else I would die. I pushed into the crowd, slipping to the end of the pier where the waves were screaming over the railing. It was a cloudy but warm Saturday and the pier was busy enough to make me insignificant even though my body was rapidly assuming a grotesque morphology in defiance of all known anatomy and physics. A caricature artist with a Nick Cave mustache smirked as I passed, dragging my wrists behind like coattails; to him it was maybe not so strange. Another person pointed me out to their mom and said hey haha woah look at that. I tried to bury my face as more turned and stared but I couldn’t quite get my nose under my sagging drippy armpits.
By the time I reached the end of the pier I was mostly arms. Overall I had shrunk but my arms were at least ten feet long. I could barely see over the railing. Everyone was watching me with a look of bemused curiosity, like the faces people might make while looking up from their phones at a dolphin show. I wanted very badly to breathe and process, one two three four like my therapist said, but I was trapped between crashing waves and onlookers, both menacing, both sucking up the world and all the air with it.
Amelia caught up to me and said are you feeling okay? I jabbered something back at her and jiggled my limp appendages. I said Amelia you have to help me. Amelia call nine one one call an ambulance call a fucking helicopter get me out of here. I shouted these demands with great intensity even though the last time I used emergency medical services it financially ruined me. Amelia looked up and hopped away. A rogue wave exploded over the railing and soaked me head to toe. Head to finger. My toes were inside my hips now.
Now I was all wet and my eyes stung. When I opened them I was shorter than Amelia’s waist, my clothes had slid off and my arms were basically long as fuck. It was almost impossible to breathe and I wondered what was happening to my internal organs. I wondered if I would keep unraveling until I became one very long arm with a hand on either side and then I would die. I felt exposed so I spun in a circle and coiled my arms around my shrunken body like the spring on the inside of those nice pens. I heard everyone giggling. Amelia was a giant now, smiling down at me, and in a damp shaky voice I cried Amelia, Amelia what do I do? She rolled her eyes.
Another wave came then and knocked me onto my arm-wrapped stomach. I was small enough to see under the gap at the bottom of the railing. The ocean was very close underneath. The crowd had come closer, eager to see what I did next. Their smiles split their faces in two. They laughed and shouted and chanted, louder and louder.
Somehow they all knew my name. They knew every name I had ever used: the ones my parents gave me and the ones I gave myself, my failed bands and gamertags, the ID that showed me my bank account, names used to hurt me and names used to hide me, every slur and @ and AKA I’d ever known. They shouted my names in a vicious cadence, stomping and clapping, splitting my skull it was so loud.
Amelia whispered in my ear asking if I wanted a push. The waves rocked outside the railing and the crowd was stomping closer. Yes.
Hitting the water was like being born and murdered at the same time. My new form was not buoyant and I sank slowly in the cold murk. My arms unfurled from my tiny frame and trailed behind me. I found I could pulse them in such a way to propel myself forward, and though I couldn’t see much I felt them brush against fish and slimy kelp as I swam. I didn’t need to breathe and I wasn’t thirsty, but I opened my mouth and let in some water and it made me feel calm so I gulped it down. The sea felt cool and holy passing through me.
The crowd continued their chant on the pier, the cacophony muted by seawater like club speakers from inside the bathroom. I could just make out my name in the rumble. All my names, over and over, drenched in noise. I kept swimming and after a while it faded away.
Before we can lay out the blueprints of our future we must first deal with the particular question that arises when speculative concepts of a new world are put forward now in our boring period of time. Why are you a utopian? This seems like a reasonable question because years of propaganda have thoroughly sanded the brains of your average person completely smooth to the point where they can not tell the difference between a utopian and dystopian project. In fact, they believe that all utopias are dystopias as anyone who is irrational enough to stray from the perfect platonic ideal of liberal capitalism must be a genocidal monster. The USSR and Nazi Germany are conflated into a gray blob of totalitarianism by mediocre intellectuals of a “free society”. Of course concepts of totalitarianism are nothing more than a mechanism by which the ruling class cancels thought crimes among the masses. If we were to judge the utopian project like the Soviet Union by the body count it has then wouldn’t the same standard also apply to say the United Snakes of Amerika? Can we judge liberal capitalism based on the mass grave of indigenous peoples and dead slaves that it grew out of? It is a well-known fact that Hitler’s open-air Holocaust of the Eastern European peoples was directly inspired by the settler Colonial genocide of the U$ so should we dismiss the sanctity of liberal capitalism? The answer is yes. The bulk of Soviet Union’s body count comes from Noble but stupidly planned effort to industrialize a backward Nation whereas America’s body count comes out the settler Colonial genocide of Conquest and Global imperialism. The Grand historical mission of the Soviet Union, utopian in its character, is what separates it from the equally “totalitarian” dystopia of liberal Amerika and Nazi Germany.
This totalitarian consensus of totalitarianism leaves us with very few people willing to talk of Utopia. The minority that remains are academic schizophrenics like Fredric Jameson who are only capable of writing and speaking infinite patterns of jumble Jargon that mean little to nothing. That educated junkie James has sentenced himself to the cruel punishment of wandering the empty halls of the once Grand Hotel Abyss mumbling to himself aimlessly about utopia and emancipation as literary Concepts. We being neurotics of a different kind should pay academic schizophrenics nothing but pocket change, being professors they probably need it. Such academics have far less to contribute to the discourse of emancipation than actual schizophrenic homeless people, who at the bare minimum are proletarian in character.
You are a WEEPER. And the ground is wet.
Interior. Surgical suite. Performance.
We undergo trepanation. Your dura mater exposed.
And the cut-shard placed onto a metal plate.
Just listen to this, Mike (Ed Atkins)
The air is so much louder now.
Your skull is whistling with beautiful music.
An arrhythmic glitching of foot-pedals.
The scene. The scene.
You with your tongue out and eyes crossed.
The cut-shard belongs in an ossuary.
An ossuary is a pile of bones.
An ossuary is a small coffin for bones.
Performance of funerary rites.
Beginning with an elaborate march and dance.
The dance is built of small actions.
They are arranged into a field of choreographies.
The RUINER leads the march.
The cut-shard hums in its wooden chest.
Hues of pink light.
Underneath the surgery there is a cave.
The surgery is not over yet.
We are still at the suite, looking on.
Your dura mater remains exposed.
The trepanation is performed with a trephine.
Mouth-arms long, folded (Aase Berg tr. Johannes Görannson)
It shucks the shell.
A skeleton is practically an exoskeleton.
The only distinction is a thin layer of meat and membrane.
Intracellular destruction / annihilation.
You play us a beautiful song as we examine your innard.
ENTOMBED. RUINER. Leads the march.
They hold a quince over your box.
This was the fruit of the garden of Eden
No no no a pomegranate. A palmagranate.
What a lovely thought.
They march to the beach-head and bury you in the sand.
The ossuary waits there for sixty-four years.
This is a magical number. It is simple numerology.
Every year a black dog is thrown into the ocean.
What a lovely thought.
Interior. Surgical Suite. Performance.
The gait guard sits with his back-fat scraping the chair-back.
Splinters root into the unnerved flesh.
There is nothing here to hold onto (Anonymous)
We thud the trephine against your hard head.
The dura mater dries in the open atmosphere.
And now you are healthier. You are cured.
RUINER rattles the ossuary. Becoming-ossuary.
It should have that nice kind of pink blush on the inside.
And you are a WEEPER. And the ground is wet.
And a gourd is laid on the beach-head in your honor.
We envision a great feast.
Boiled liver. Young capillaries. Aged piss.
Everything in life is kaput.
We have inevitably taken up residence in an exclusion zone.
WEEPING in a meadow of sea vegetables.
Something like wakame or kombu.
In the summer they dry into stone-trees.
And we harvest them for the ossuary.
To venerate the march.
To summon the RUINER and visit the beach-head.
The rest of the body is expendable.
All that we need are the cut-shard and the dura mater.
Excess material can be discarded composted recycled.
Make a new skull.
Grow a new set of materials.
Like grafting a tree or a patch of skin.
Milque-chocolate or anonymous fluid exchange (M Kitchell)
The tech on your face is wet.
Are you a WEEPER? Someone asks. Out of sight.
Interior. Surgical Suite. Performance.
The tech on your face is replaced.
Or it is sprayed with a hydrophobic residue.
What do you mean?
We extract the eyeball carefully.
And sever the optic-nerve when it emerges from the shell.
And place the eye back in its socket.
With the visage of an owl.
Your tuft and feathery exterior.
Exterior. Surgical Suite. Performance.
Trampling your feet on the RUINER stomach.
Making them wheeze and crumple.
The ground is covered in viscous juice.
Either pulled from the soil or spit from the mouth.
Trepanation is a procedure for creating an unnatural facade.
A hallucinatory mise-en-scene (Slavoj Zizek).
The small actions of the dance mutate into new mediums.
An expanded field of movement.
The trephine looks like an egg-cracker.
The dura mater is a soft white membrane.
Between the shell and the loose gelatin.
A cruciferous head blooms from the cut-shard opening.
You look like a fungal sprout.
You smell like sulfur and moss festering.
We attempt to sever your connection.
Fungus… is vilified for its damage (Ben Woodard).
The surgical suite fills with a dense spore cloud.
Every particle of dust contributes to calcification.
This is a field of stone sculptures.
An invitation to the annual beheading.
We all look on with glee.
RUINER lifts the ossuary from a mound of drift.
And lodges it in the neck of the guillotine.
And crushes your cut-shard.
What kind of a performance is this?
What a lovely thought.
The trees look like fennel.
The grass is short and dead.
You are a WEEPER. Looking on your shattered chest.
The wood is built into a fire pit.
We plan a great feast.
You bought me this fundoshi for my twenty-third birthday, among other stupid cute sexy things. Said you always wanted to see me in one, and so I wanted it too. It was scarlet red, like fresh currant, red like the blood throbbing in my cock when I thought about wearing it for you, red like what I felt when I first met you and knew I wanted to marry you, red like the blood pumping from the tubes in your arms and chest and into the dialysis machine that kept you alive. Then red becomes a harsh piercing white.
With it came a thin Amazon gift note that read, “A Gift for you. Model these? Give me a show. Let me remove them with my teeth or my mind.” Today, the letters are barely noticeable, cheap black ink fading into the paper rolls they use for cash registers.
I took a three-day Amtrak trip to get to you. On the way, I was editing the final draft of my queer transgressive novel. We talked and texted endlessly. I sent you pictures and low-resolution videos of the mountains, forests, and valleys anytime I had a signal. ‘R u wearing it?’ ‘No…’ ‘Why not?’ ‘That’s weird. And hygiene.’ ‘Tighty whities aren’t that hygienic either.’ ‘I’ll wear it when we get there.’ Between editing my novel and talking to him, I had been reading Ocean Vuong’s new novel, which partially deals with the grief that comes with losing a lover. I couldn’t see the white beaming in front of me on the pages because the red was too pulsating under my briefs, thinking of all the stories I still wanted to write with him.
That first night, you made a ‘Jew joke,’ and I shouldn’t have gotten so uptight about it, but I just fucking explode to anything that could be deemed antisemitic. I know you didn’t mean it. You got me that Golden State Warriors Yarmulke. You’d remind me to go to services every Shabbat even when I didn’t want to. That day, we fought when we should’ve been fucking. Like, you as a sexy fucking bear roleplaying a Scottish accent, spanking my shaved little twink ass while I’m in a tight little chastity cage, or some other really crazy gay fetish shit that we’re into. But we made up the next day, ingesting five grams of a liquid mushroom extract, and I made sure to be kosher to what you fantasized of on that gift note.
And I remember how I felt like our bodies were like millions of tiny glowing angels locked in prison cells waiting to break out—my three-hour mix of tribal ambient music playing in the background. I was impatiently holding an instruction manual in both of my hands, telling you how to tie the fundoshi, while you were turning me around, moving your fingers up my crotch and around my waist. And it wasn’t sexual at all. Not until after the medicine wore off, after we cried, both of us imagining our eventual deaths, and each of us knew who would die first. Soft hues of red momentarily become flashes of white.
You tore the cotton underwear off of me with your teeth while I was tied to your bed. Made me cum all over my chest and face and then you licked it off. And I remember after the sex, the scarlet piece of cloth tangled between my feet as I lay on your belly, in an oceanic bliss, the fallen angels inside of me released from their prison.
I’d found videos on YouTube and pdfs of male Shibari tutorials. Hesitant, I worried that they’d be too complicated for you to master, but then I remembered your patience, your brain, things I won’t ever have. Like most things, I’d see some sexy Yaoi image on Pixiv, and I’d joke, ‘We need to recreate that.’ But then you’d find a way to do it all and better. Red bamboo silk rope to compliment the fundoshi, arms tied behind my back, feet bound together, many more knots and loops over my thighs, arms, hexagrams and constellations made of thread over my chest and back. The more I’d fidget to escape, the tighter the restraints would get.
Never thought I’d wake up with an erection, mourning the days where you’d leave me tied up in your bed, porn left on the TV, then you’d walk away to do nothing for an hour or two, before coming back to edge me. The only rope that I envision ever using again in my life is for crafting a noose, which would then transform into a squeezing halo, the tip of my tongue bitten off, eyes swollen bloodshot, but behind the iris, a permanent field of white.
I miss you more with each passing day. Some days, the red seems like visceral stab wounds, chewing on cartilage put through a meat grinder, and the white is like snapped bone. And I scream and sob in uncontrollable throes of psychotic torment, in private and in public, sometimes laughing maniacally at strangers, crawling into fetal position in the corner of a staff bathroom with my legs slashed up, breaking my left hand out of rage, feeling beyond pathetic, only wanting you back again. And yet I still learn to love you more every day.
The red fundoshi remains hidden, crumbled up in the far back of my underwear drawer, behind my cold lifeless white briefs, waiting to be touched by you again, but I know that day will never come.
we imagine ourselves already dead—the soft mirrorettes that used to look at you in amazement have long since broken, while the hand … bah, who cares what those ignoring-it-all scarecrow-grass fingers ever did—no one alerted, or bothering to check out, not even to take note or for routine certification; corpses like toads gobbled up by right-angle snakes armed with sharp jewelry and deadly enzymatic compression; exquisite putrefaction in the intestines of bare, elemental apartments, which have been modestly comfortable graves all along—the walls, white—the shelves, ossuaries of paper—the few pieces of furniture, improvised catafalques—this laptop, a tombstone—the music that lights up, a requiem—passwords, an epitaph—the views, a purgatory—work, unfinished—the unknown, not cleared—the puzzle, unsolved—the reward, not collected—, having presumably gotten rid of, as it is customary in certain coldern countries, almost everything superfluous; secret socialites, old clothes and shoes, archaic computers, a jukebox and a Japanese-made typewriter, badly screwed and crumbling furniture, costume jewelery, talismans, an endless sequence of fractal fantasies, objects abandoned by those who had temporarily stayed in our place (friends, or people who had nowhere to go, or whom we fucked, or we desired, or who wanted to fuck us but we didn’t realize or didn’t want to find out and decided to offer them the bed while we stayed on the couch appropriating the guest’s intoxication to suck his dreams, feeding ourselves with the fantasy of a severed throat uncovering a stream of blood), the remains of a whole pharmacopoeia for minor and temporary ailments, magazine and newspaper clippings that echoed of our incessant activity, gifts never removed from their box, one of those lamps called flexos, never scrubbed teapots, a videotape player, albums with photographs already digitized, a bicycle wheel, a bevel, kitchen utensils that we never got to use, some whose usefulness we still don’t know and only remind us of the fascinating surgical instruments in a Cronenberg movie; quilts and blankets worn out by the surge of the muscles, by the sequential impact of waves that dragged innumerable bones eroding all the surfaces and edges of the house until they were curved and smooth, by the rhythm of dreams of agitated bodies; frayed rugs, ripped curtains, exotic liquor bottles, statuettes, scribbled notebooks, odd and impure numbers, various works of art we did not attribute value to, toys left by the children of others, a checkerboard without chips, a tamagotchi, nuts and screws, a collection of plastic ashtrays of different sizes and colors, the shell of a turtle, a rifle bullet without powder or sheath, a pair of ping pong rackets, a microscope with broken lenses, matchboxes from restaurants, phones from way before they were smart, instruction manuals for home appliances starting to rust around their corners, three hats, canning cans, an umbrella, a dowsing pendulum, a stuffed piranha, an alpine knife, an ivory mouthpiece, a cardboard box containing fossils and Lego pieces, an orb, sheet music, a small glass jar full of spare change from another era, coins with little value but a million vernacular nicknames, coined in alloys so light they looked like paper buttons; having considered lighting a pyre or throwing everything out the window like vomit, the undigested by time, enjoying the destruction of the meteorological past crashing onto the also dead asphalt, hoping that, with the objects, certain habits and obsessions would also go away —or maybe not, maybe what we were longing for was to get closer to extinction with our vices intact and the satin shroud attached to the skin, superimposing folds to wrinkles, transforming us into a macabre instrument of crisscrossed strings that could, perhaps, incite a manic pizzicato fetish—; algorithms concealing our silent desertion with their crude but effective imitations, responding to the falsified messages that will continue to arrive as if they were still us; posting pre-programmed videos; plants watering and sunning themselves; our clothes, ironed, lightly scented, impractical, hanging in the closet; a suit that we haven’t worn since the day we were awarded a distinction; the frozen wind of the arctic hurrying farewell to the terrors that it will be depositing in the mailboxes; our credit cards paying automatically all those invoices from companies that provided us with a service and will not pause to consider the death of a debtor without heirs or fortune; profiles and avatars, still active, twinkling, hoisting our retouched covers, trying in vain to seduce in our place, the place of those archaeopteryxed on the oakwood floor of the living room, those laid on beds like mummies, livid rag dolls unraveling on an old black leather sofa while beyond the window the helicopters sing, cooking us in our own juices in the bathtub, deceased alive in the Internet Hades like the fabled feline in the quantum story;
when dying, we will undramatically stop being anyone and will become variety, maybe a multitude, because multiplicity is one of the most common disguises that nothingness adopts for itself; a jumble of pinches of confused subjects scattering through the air like corkscrews of a metallic vapor, glitter sneezed by a brass statuette; there are words that darken the air’s gaze; why when we fantasized about transforming ourselves into something—a zombie, a wolf, a cyborg, a machine, an insect, dust—were we always confident to remain the same on the other side of the metamorphosis? the possibility of dissociation, if ever considered, triggers extreme dread; however, when examining the past, it is impossible to speak it in the singular; every moment dreams an infinity of past premonitions; the phantasmatic is more a swarm than a miracle; There is no monadic subject from which preaching as if it were the imaginary center of an ideal geometric figure, but a multipole projection, a dimensionless outburst of selves and non-selves and anti-selves vibrating with variable intensity, spreading throughout the hell invading all times and all spaces; light, when decomposed, produces colors; our brains will be made of insects that will devour each other, that will parasitize the rotten ganglia of their own cannibal larvae, and we will be convinced that we were more than that anthill of images squatting on paper and pixels trying to represent the same face once and again across the years; years that will not always have happened one by one as it might be expected from a mandatory chronology (if it were our business, we would divide duration in a different way—in chants or connections, for example), but that sometimes might have collapsed and fallen in unison, a rupture of the skies, as during the avalanche—dates do not matter, it is enough to know that it will last forever—when at the end of an adolescence hypnotized by the neutrality of animals and plants chattering in fractured tongues, a whole decade fell over us, a shower of cold world, just like one of those buckets of water that jokers placed in balance on the the upper crossbar of a half-open door; all that music that had been accumulating in spirally-scratched capillary grooves on circles of black paste like clouds gather in the sky until they unload a flurry of pellets, and all those books so recently papered and glued, and the toxic distillate flowing through the avenues of an empire erased from history like after the ash snowfall in Pompeii, embalmed and silver-covered assassins emerging from the sewers, honey swept by streams of dirty water, ominous symbols and a black uniform that we would never take off anymore, we would only put the white coat on, like the robe of a cosmic judge or the costume of a supervillain; ten years, suddenly, of sound and dreams, from when decades were forged in iron and weighed like buses instead of being light puffs of stinking air as they were later, and a whole century of mad philosophers and suicide poets, and we thought that it had been a decade or a century when it was actually half a millennium what fell and crushed us, leaving us without buildings, without roads, with only the late tremor of seismic aftershocks to guide us in the darkness of a reborn universe;
we will not be, thus, just a summary of that file of snapshots of castaways with their eyes lost in the void, but also many others, possibly some of you, our memory will have appropriated your identities, your disguises, your being-thus instead of being-there; or, better, it will have been built with their raw mass—indistinct and amorphous cement or collection of elusive objects according to your ontology of choice—with their and your dreams sealed with tears of mastic and digital viscosity and the bittersweet touch of the ancient materials and the rebellious flesh merging into the fruit that returns with each season; hence you cannot, for example, call us Ishmael—which would be much easier for you but inaccurate—or by any other name by which we have been unknown;
following the decadent and wise peoples we had piled wood, marble and ivory around a bundle of gods in order to interpret a prediction despised by statistics; the last general cleaning had been more the beginning of an epilogue than of a new life, an essay for that end of days that will not be an explosion but a sigh, that will not stamp its indelible mark on the universe as when a star and the echo of its agony floats forever in the form of a subtle radioactive murmur—or, conversely, the final whimper triggers a ventriloquism of minute vibrations in the air that amplify into a cosmic storm light years away of our blackout, like the flapping of wings of the usual butterfly or the bitter and screeching song of disciplined mosquitoes, and the end of our days might cause the collapse of the universe in millions of years from now, when there will be no years or days because there will be no earth, no sun, no rotations, and there will be no science left for you to write down a birthday card; in either case, hydrogen won’t end as dust; how long has it been since we’ve had a good portion of baked lamb, toro sashimi, a stew?; we will arrive at that autumn of winter that heralds spring and the blood of the day will drip again through grooves and cracks that have remained—shadows, wrinkles and imperfections hidden by makeup—in singular lethargy for several months; nothing will enter the retinas against the light of the eyelids; only, perhaps, some animals will pay attention to the immobile bodies; depending on our previous zoological inclinations, we will be quickly detected as available food by friendly domestic carnivores—cats, dogs, ferrets, mongooses—or a little later by our friends the severe sewer rats, perhaps accompanied, depending on the latitude of the funeral event, by other scavengers and opportunists, including non-mammals; in the case of people like us, who have never surrounded ourselves with pets, being eaten by urban rodent tightropeers seems like an equitable revenge, because throughout our long professional career we have sacrificed heaps to science, with the mitigating effects of anesthesia and controlled conditions, purposely bred for the experiment in sterile plastic drawers, transported from the animal houses, through corridors with satin white painted walls to the illuminated laboratories where they would be disposed as if they were identical pieces of an immense global puzzle, their lives as simulations of the life we had tried to compose and then whisper the instructions to the number-sewing machines, summaries of the arcane existence of the phenomenon, footnotes to our mental image of the human condition, that kind of molecular salvation so set in motion, questioned by love to last, to be restored in the icy privacy of the operating room; it could well be said that we were specifically bred to scamper around the earthly maze of the mass market, to enthusiastically respond to invitations to consume as much as possible, all the time, pushing bright buttons from inside our cages and sometimes producing any thing—a result, a provisional conclusion, a transparent crime—; as Wistar, BALB/C and Sprague Dawley as they are; but we will be dead, we will be gone and not objecting to the dubious architectural mess caused by the multiple gnaws of nervous and hungry jaws, lips painted with decomposed blood; we will not ask for shapes and styles to be respected or appearances to be preserved, we will no longer have the option of consenting to be tasted or not, possibly with an enthusiasm that we had forgotten, first the juiciest parts torn—lips, eyes, nipples, genitals, those perky fruits of meat, always so perfectly ripe and so tempura and so prone to swelling and so on the verge of bursting by themselves even without the internal pressure of fermentation and fly larvae—, before going on to taunt the crunchy cartilage of slightly acromegalic ears and noses; in the absence of animals in residence everything will depend on pure chance, on the solidity of the walls and partitions, on the height of the floor in which, suddenly but not unexpectedly, we will have stopped using oxygen, on the diameter of the pipes, on the season, on whether or not we’d closed the windows before collapsing, before starting to stink of a mixture of balsam, hydrocarbons and garbage; before running out of reason, of monsters, of sleep
The closest I ever got to the Big City was the airport a mile outside of it, arriving back from a business trip at five in the morning and forced, then, to maneuver my way via subways and trains and buses across several state lines home, getting drunker on each instance of public transport, cheap beer overpriced and swilled from plastic cups that flexed with the bend of my fingers, home, where my girlfriend at the time would break up with me, home, where I would afterward, tottering on my porch, call my boss and quit, home, where I would wake and discover I no longer had anything resembling what my life had previously been.
From then on I could not hold an occupation. I just, I could not make myself. Managers would urge me to put my heart “into” my work, as if that arterial plumbing could be extracted from my chest and implanted into a cause worthier than my own slushed perpetuation. My teeth hurt. To be clear, the gaps between my teeth hurt, the gums bacterial and rotting, although perhaps any sort of toothache was a headache when you defined it. I flitted between jobs like dreams, cashiering in the stench of a fish market, cataloguing porn in family-owned video rental stores, filing documents in a basement deep as a skyscraper was tall.
I stopped belonging to places and lived instead in the space between them. Offseason beach towns with snow everywhere as sand, cities built around mills gutted and left to rust—my life a month-to-month leasing. I started to wish I had something to commit myself to, a politician I could support through an act violent and simple as slitting my stomach open and watching the entrails steam out, and it was around then I met a man who needed help around his property.
“A second set of hands,” he said, and again it struck me that so much of ourselves were bodies, meat and fluids. He would let me live rent-free in his unfinished barn. This was one of those summers where the heat was so everywhere you could not tell if it was coming from the sky above or beneath your very skin. This was an election year and all the candidates were corpses reanimated.
My primary job, I soon discovered, was to dig holes. The purpose of this was unknown. My now-boss had vague explanations ready—he wanted to build a fence, there were mites in his lawn, there was gold that needed finding. When I worked there was always a sun over my head, and it beat down on my neck like a club, such that I noticed the ground I dug was cool, these holes I tore into the earth were little pockets of relief from all that brightness. While digging I unconsciously started to put my arms into my holes, then my shoulders, then my entire head: I wanted to be buried as a treasure.
My boss was convinced he had been abducted by aliens at a young age. “My sister and I both,” he said. “My parents agree—something unusual happened, a flash of light in the forest, and then the two of us were gone for an entire day, twenty four hours we spent completely vanished…”
I was digging holes as he spoke this. There was dirt all over the place and worms too, writhing. The sound of my shovel hitting rocks lodged in the ground upset me for a reason I did not know.
“The telltale sign of an abduction is a chip in your brain,” he continued. “They implant it into you. It can be detected, easily, by X-ray devices. Five years ago I had a CAT scan done on myself. Just to see. I couldn’t look at the results. I couldn’t make myself.”
My boss always had this distinctively glassy look in his eyes, I noticed. He was so glassy he could shatter. Somewhere, I was aware as I looked at him, there was a baby crying—there was always a baby crying in those days.
“The doctors said there was an abnormality in my brain,” my boss was saying. I was digging. I was caked in dirt, I was like a birthday cake, only the frosting was mud and there were no candles. Those days I dreamed in concrete, falling asleep and imagining only hallways, tunnels, corridors leading nowhere but back into themselves. “Alien interference is most easily identified as a lump in your skull. A protrusion. That’s how they track you. I couldn’t look at the scans of my brain. I couldn’t make myself. I didn’t want to know how much of my life was not my own.”
Those days were not pastries. Nothing was a cupcake, sugared and with a chocolate filling. The sun cudgeled my head and there were flies too as I dug. Each week I got deeper and deeper and into the earth. I’d brought a TV with me into the barn where I lived and it would flicker on, late in the night, without warning, a pallid glow that licked me as I slept. Once I woke in the part of the morning where the sunrise was murky as a swamp’s oozing, and when I went to my window I saw my boss standing in his driveway, the security light of his own house flashing against him, his silhouette smashed and steamrolled across the pavement of his property.
“My sister is gone,” he said. “The aliens took her. I know this is her grief because we were twins and we shared the same womb and we were the same, genetically, haphazardly, we curled against one another like cats in the boned cathedral that was my mother and now her presence is not here or on any earth, she was abducted, she was taken with a farness that if expressed in miles would be beyond our human comprehension. A lightyear is so vast it cannot be taught in terms of distance—only time.”
I had, at all hours, a headache. When I looked it up in newspapers I saw that my boss’s sister had killed herself—had died from suicide in some small county in some small state that had no relevance to me. I kept digging. The abyss of yourself could grow so deep. It could become, like a trench in the ocean, as submerged as the tallest mountain was high. Supposedly there were, rumors went those days, volcanoes on Mars bigger than entire cities. Supposedly, my boss said, our sky was the camouflaged underside of one massive spaceship, waiting to beam us up, simultaneously, all us disparate souls finally and at once. I had a thousand cavities all burrowing so intricately I had to wonder if they connected somewhere at the bottom of myself. My teeth hurt. My head was filled with holes.
I was thinking about smoking. I was thinking about my weight.
My favorite food is carrot cake. My apartment smells like a big, wet cough.
I could’ve walked down the block. I could’ve walked to Walgreens. The sponges there are seventy-five cents less. But I’m not leaving this block.
I live upstairs. I shop downstairs. Things are far from perfect. It is summer, and I don’t have an internship at HBO. There’s a shard of glass in my bedroom with my best friend’s name on it. This is the worst summer of my life.
it’s easier to kill you
if you aren’t already dead!
come on, the rigged chandelier releases sodium pentothal, lower from the ceiling and invade me. i’m overflowing, an unsanitary bathroom in the groin. come take advantage. i can’t speak, as
my mouth circles wide and accepts a hose. the gas-powered vacuum revs up.
chaste trachea, suck up the balloon tamponade. it’s ok, years of discipline stretched the throat for this.
“you are a well-behaved toy.” yes, humankind, i am eternally below the age of consent, decide on my behalf and it’s ok, i won’t disagree, staring back unreflecting from a funhouse manic-depressive hall of superego mirrors. dyspeptic beliefs are manually transmitted based on masochist teachings. ritual tardy slips were sent to the grim reaper’s office b/c i’m late. intricacies of language degenerate to ranting complaints to the better business bureau of the libido. infantilized and tantalized, bf skinner says i’m an adult baby, free to go or stay in these dresser drawers / jars / cupboards / glove compartments. various times of the normal bourgeois
Diary of Frailty
Day 0: Inhuman howling. A child with a thousand nights written into memory.
Day 1: Asexual single-cell division, the one torn from itself. I’m structured in matter and yet there is never a knot that cannot be untied.
Day 5: Layers in the mind, unbound into paranoiac apparitions and circling like cannibalistic vultures, latent in my DNA.
Day 12: Cold unreality slowly descends as nerve systems are scrambled. Irrational paranoias invade cell consciousness, thanatopic tendencies leaking out, molecular plague rats.
Day 21: All this starlight, this spectral landscape bound in paper, has invaded me, bleeding stump of mind beaten around as this masochistic lunacy continues in darkness. Dancing until I’m brain-atrophied and dead from plague, assaulted by convoluted abominations from the sewer.
Day 36: Swarms of shit, semen, vomit scrawled on paper. It’s cut-up text and the body is an incomparably potent canvas. Life brims with dissolution, it jerks and spasms at the hands of an inorganic puppet master. Rosy crimson moonlight stains an earth the color of delicious sin as swarmachinic nightmare-collectives descend from the stars; devour me until there’s nothing left, oh my god. If I was the last resident of outer Gaia I’d bury myself in a pillow fort soaked with kerosene.
At least, that’s how the more pornographic moments passed. Caged in phylogenetic flesh, life can only be so self-destructive.
Inside you there are two wolves:
1: Compel the PROCESS, embody the WORKS OF THE COSMOS and know infinity, starry-eyed. TRANSCEND all WEAKNESS.
2: MIND is TOMB. It BURNS even after it dies. Consciousness cannot be ki//ed, only EVISCERATED. REMOVE the organs, bring it all back to ZERO.
I recently ordered the Sony ICD-PX470 Stereo Digital Voice Recorder (with built-in USB). I purchased it from Amazon and received it twenty-nine hours later.
I have been using it to conduct interviews about the end of the world.
Subject describes geese, shortwave radios, a final cigarette.
I love the display. It’s reminiscent of a Gameboy with its black lettering and dull green background. The menus are simple and easy to navigate. I have rarely needed the manual.
The audio quality is in my opinion superb. There is a very soft whine in the background but it’s the kind of thing you have to really listen for or you won’t notice it.
Subject describes warm piss glowing in a 2 liter bottle.
Subject describes the cold tarp you wrap yourself in and how you wait for your body to warm it.
Subject describes the earth’s surface: a bleached egg, its topsoil the strongest hallucinogen, its greedy dust fills your lungs.
I have exact questions but I vary their order with every interview.
The Sony ICD-PX470 comes with 4 GB of built-in memory which affords you approximately 59 hours of recording time.
Subject describes emergency preparedness kits. They have food rations and drinking water, simple LED flashlights, whistles. But what they don’t have is a fucking radio, he says.
Subject describes financial markets backed by shortwave radios. You could work every day of your life and never afford one.
Subject describes the gait of survivors: stooped, slow, pained, intentional. They wear ponchos and dust masks.
The birds get sick first, he says. Dead birds everywhere. You walk on them. You swim through bird disease.
Subject describes a camp bulldozed by order of mayor. Indistinguishable blend of heirlooms and waste, beloved toxic soup, biohazardous pictures of loved ones. Vintage dolls and liquor bottles and needles and a dog collar but no dog.
Customer reviews says, “The supplied external mic will not work with this recorder and will not record audio.” 1 star.
Subject describes the geese at the Riverwalk and how people sit red-faced in their pickup trucks and wait for them to pass. The day the trucks don’t brake for geese. A dog limps and yelps and no one does a thing.
Your life isn’t worth two shortwave radios here, he says.
Customer review says, “This worked better than I had hoped. Had it placed in a room of my house and could hear everything that was said [terrified screams]. It even picked up callers on cell phones [panic, distorted voices, emptiness]. That was unexpected! Battery life is awesome and very easy to use.”
Subject describes the last cigarette you ever smoke, not the last one in your pack. The one you light and wonder if you’ll be alive to finish it.
AGENT: OEDIPUS (RIKO KOIZUMI)
MECHANIZED CAVALRY FRAME: JOCASTA ([REDACTED] CLASS TECH ASSAULT MECH)
ON-BOARD AI: ANTIGONE
MISSION: ASSASSINATE SECRETARY [REDACTED]
DATE & TIME: [REDACTED] 21:11
HEADQUARTERS SENT ME OUT, TITANIC MECH BOOTS ON THE GROUND ONCE MORE
THANKFUL FOR THE OPPORTUNITY TO KILL, FOR THE THRILL OF THE HUNT
FOR HAVING BEEN GIVEN A PURPOSE, I’D GLADLY GIVE MY LIFE FOR INSURGENCY
I’LL HACK THROUGH ALL THEIR PUNY SYSTEMS, FINGERTIPS LIKE LIGHTNING ACROSS MY KEYS
NEURAL IMPLANTS SHOCK MY NERVES, SHIVERS RUN THROUGH ME, FEELS LIKE HEAVEN
THEY CAN’T STOP ME, NOBODY EVER HAS, NOBODY EVER WILL, AND I’D NEVER HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY
I’LL VIOLATE THEIR CORES, I’LL SPILL THEIR SYSTEMS LIKE GUTS ON THE GROUND
CRASH THROUGH THE FLIMSY GATES, RAVAGE THROUGH THEIR HOPELESS INFANTRY, PIERCE THROUGH THEIR SLOPPY PILOTS
THESE MERCENARY PIGS, WITH NOTHING BUT MONEY ON NEWLY DETONATED MINDS, DESERVE NO BETTER
SHOULD HAVE PICKED A DIFFERENT SIDE IF YOU DIDN’T WANT IT TO END LIKE THIS, MOTHERFUCKERS
CRIMSON GORE SPLATTERED ONTO BLEACHED DESERT SANDS, BODIES LEFT FOR THE VULTURES
BURIAL OF NOTE, OPEN CASKETS FILLED WITH GIBLETS, INTESTINES, AND SMOLDERING CORPSEFLESH
THEY NEVER STOOD A CHANCE, DIDN’T KNOW WHO THEY WERE FUCKING WITH, SEEMS LIKE THEY NEVER DO
TOO LATE FOR THEM NOW, JUST CHECKED AND I’VE GOT AMMO TO SPARE FOR THESE PATHETIC FUCKS
OEDIPUS NESTED INSIDE MOTHER WITH FORBIDDEN CHILD, AN UNSTOPPABLE FORCE OF NEO-NATURE
PSYCHOPATHIC CYBERBULLY WHO’S MASTERED THE CRAFT, CHILD SOLDIER WITH CHILDBEARING FINGERTIPS
LITTLE GIRL WITH A BIG FUCKING GUN, PULSE CANNON FIRE SENDS CHILLS THROUGH THE SPINE
I FEEL GUNPOWDER BURN AS IT SENDS MORE SLUGS DOWN RANGE, I FEEL THEIR TRANSPONDERS FADE AWAY
BURNING HEAT SPREADS THROUGH THEIR MECHS AND THROUGH MY LOINS, I LOVE IT
OVERWHELMING IN THE BEST POSSIBLE WAY, I YEARN FOR IT MORE WITH EACH MISSION
THE UTTER DOMINATION OF THESE SICK FREAKS BRINGS ME BLISS, I NEED IT
INCINERATE THEM WITH THEIR OWN REACTORS LOL, UPGRADE YOUR SHIT LOSERS, YOU CAN’T STEP TO ME
I CAN TELL WHEN THEY’RE SCARED, LINKED TO THEIR SYSTEMS, BITCH I CAN FEEL YOUR HEARTS POUND
FLATLINE ON THE SCANNER, I FUCKING LOVE TO SEE IT, YOU WERE SIMPLY OUTMATCHED BY ME
AND NOW YOU LAY, CHEST SPLAYED WITH RIBCAGE EXPOSED AND EYES HANGING FROM SOCKETS
EXCITES ME MORE THAN THEY COULD EVER KNOW, ARE THEY REALLY SCARED OF A SINGLE PILOT HAHAHA
FUCKING PATHETIC, WHAT HAPPENED TO THEIR STRENGTH IN NUMBERS, WHAT HAPPENED TO THEIR BATTLE DOCTRINE
I GUESS IT MELTED AWAY WITH THE REST OF THEIR SHITHEAD FRIENDS LMFAO, IS THIS REALLY ALL THEY HAD TO OFFER
SHEAR CHUNKS OF STEEL FROM A HOSTILE, EXPOSE THEM LIKE A CHAINED UP WHORE DRIPPING DOWN HER THIGHS
LEAVE THEM INCAPACITATED, SPRAWLED OUT AGAINST THE CONCRETE WALLS OF THEIR BASE
GOD IT MAKES ME SO WET, WHO NEEDS LOVE AND AFFECTION WHEN I HAVE THIS, BULLET RAIN TO GET ME OFF
SEX IS FOR LOW LIVES, JUST PILOT A PROPER MECH BRO, IT’S NOT SO HARD, ARE THEY EVEN TRYING
JUST KIDDING, NOT EVERYONE CAN BE A GENIUS PRODIGY, THEY’RE MISSING OUT
TREMBLING AS I LOOSE A SHELL THROUGH A COCKPIT, GIVE IT A NICE NEW PAINT JOB
EAGERLY LOAD ANOTHER ROUND, BLOW THEM AWAY ALL OVER AGAIN, DROOL RUNS DOWN MY LIP AS I BITE DOWN HARD
RINSE AND REPEAT, RINSE BLOOD AND GUNPOWDER FROM MY FRAME, RINSE BRAIN FROM MY BOOTS
HELLO MISTER SECRETARY, IT’S SO NICE TO SEE YOU CAUGHT WITH YOUR PANTS DOWN, PSST, MINE ARE TOO
TORN APART BY A HUNTER-KILLER CLASS DRONE, LMFAO DID YOU SEE THE LOOK ON HIS FACE
TWISTED IN TERROR WHILE MINE TWISTS UP IN GLEE, THERE’S NOTHING QUITE LIKE IT
SIMPLY PRICELESS, I’D GIVE ANYTHING FOR THIS, I’VE GIVEN EVERYTHING FOR THIS
MOMMY AND DADDY WOULD BE SO PROUD IF THEY COULD SEE ME NOW
Hat on, hood on, expectations low, breathe… Let’s take a spin around the yard. Images of tattered lanterns, years of forgotten romances, every wide-eyed shutter pulled. Sulking adolescent crags jerried out in the station McDonalds smoke enough cigarettes they could be sick. Plaid skirts and exposed knees expunge any infinitesimal shred of self-proclaimed hovering decency. My thunderous senses shudder like the engineered life machines that tremble above. The delicious, succulent sauce on the street has congealed just in time. Yamatoji Rapid. Special Rapid. Special Local. Special rapid local lives and feelings blur past the wobbling yolk of my eye. Searching for a mental scab to itch, the shells of burnt-out bodies sway in line. Kawaii key chains of dazed girls sit delicately suspended in locomotion with the tracks, visibly arrested like the power of the elderly geezers who try to cop a hit of their feels in the shade of the peak hour jam. Strewn deflowered newspapers depicting the daily horoscopes line the Nippon patriarchy’s castration. Pathetic attempts at public intimacy show that it’s on full fucking display. Crammed dins of convenience after convenience make it clear that the salarymen want to end up anywhere but home. A glimpse of any one of 21 konbini stumbled upon illustrate a diet of deep-fried animal fat, excess mayonnaise and cheap carbonated booze. Images of dirty manga girls gorged on cuticles old enough to be their disenchanted daughters reflected in despondent pools. The will to live buried somewhere in the encrusted yellow corners of those same weary eyes. Salacious slurping of noodles the most common way to climax, no hope these Styrofoam hieroglyphs smeared with corporate entrails are misinformed. Wheat or egg, thick or thin, cold or hot, hard or fast – just tell ‘em how it is. If it’s a good deal, you can’t refuse it. Just make sure to ask ‘em to take a photograph of their family before you pay the cost. Note it down, note it all. If a friend tells you “No,” just say “No,” to it all. Kids, settle in – this is where it begins.
Moonlit passages spell out words in saccharin orange. Tightly coiled egg sacs of garbage promote the residents’ unfounded ideology. I slip a turn past an unsavoury belch of bicycles. Front wheels driven to the ground like rusty anchors on the sideroad. Head nods and frothy sips abound. Trepidation of the hosts mired in side glances. The depth of aimless souls slide past like tragic vessels buried at sea. Delicate drunken office hands play at shadows politely as the smoke from Mild Seven tips filter the cavern within. Vending machines four, five and six – our only good friends in the abyss. Crouch down and slide across the abrasive drywall. Fear that eyes never lock eyes. Knowing glances vibe as they intimate my way. Flesh of a grilled squid permeates an aura of desperation. I insert a few clammy coins for refreshment. Pop, whirr and hiss – the magical delivers a tabular beacon of mighty thirst. Crack it open, shake my knee for a taste, stand around out of tune. Time to light up a stick like the other enervated masses. My lengthy chugs and drags in silence eventually win. This convivial shared weltschmerz shows I’ve found where I belong.
Sweat smell like brass,
plastic or burnt oil.
More machine than man,
Woman or child, no Lifeboats
Line crossed like tight ropes or slit throats.
Racked M70 like Iraqi or
Lebanese, rock lock mag empty tritium lighting green
sand in eroded wood grips
senses also eroded, no shit.
The feast lasts 10 hours like
before, like forefathers’ and
theirs. The rest lasts only a
split second, like the moment
the .44 fathers a copper shell,
w/ force enough to cut a cop
Divided in 2 like a thin blue
Once, as a child, I visited Basel, in Switzerland. My mother took me to see the old Paper Mill, one of Basel’s supposed landmarks. Here, I was told that I would bear witness to the process of a minor resurrection: dead material becoming a dynamic medium. That didn’t mean much to me, paper was for cuts and Clive Barker chapter books. I was thinking of life, not resurrection. Outside, I saw other kids with their peers, they had just been released from grade school. They looked European, they were having fun, playfully shoving one another. I desperately wanted to distance myself from my parents and enjoy youth with the other kids. I am sad reflecting on this memory, I don’t know why. Years later, I would learn about a mysterious event called Art Basel, which saddened me even more. In good faith, I could not recommend that anyone visit Basel. These are my memories.
When Fyodor Dostoevsky went to Basel in 1867, he visited the painting The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb (1520-1522) by Hans Holbein the Younger. He was saddened, he was disturbed, but in a singular way, different from my own fit of the spleen in Basel. “He stood before it dumbstruck,” wrote his wife Anna. She worried that he would fall to another one of his epileptic fits, but he did not. It was not the Swiss air but the depiction of Christ that disturbed Dostoevsky. In the painting, his hands and feet are rotting, his flesh is corrupted. He does appear as God, not even made in the image of God, but of a dead “man”. It was a bloated, drowned man, fished out of the Rhine, which Holbein used as a model.
This life-sized image (30.5 cm x 200 cm) did not break Dostoevsky’s faith, but it did momentarily shake it. This is how faith is reinforced, forged over time, like a Bowie knife—and then it becomes painfully sharp, with the ability to deflect oncoming attacks. Christ was, and is—as the Eastern Orthodox Church confirmed at the Chalcedonian Council in AD 451—both fully man and fully God. When God became man, he too felt grief, agony, and anguish. Holbein shows us that it is divine to rot.
Note: this text was assembled from a collection of newspapers, pulp novels, academic journals and manifestoes. This text is assembled primarily from the works of Wilbur Smith, Ted Kaczynski, the writers at The Mirror newspaper, The Spectator, Stylist magazine and Rising Sun by John Toland. Additional words and sentences were stolen from an Italian travel guide and Isaac Asimov’s Foundation. The method of “writing” was stolen wholesale from William Burroughs and J.G. Ballard. This entire text is plagiarism, all complaints can be sent to @UrbanMaoism on twitter.
“This is where the trouble starts,”
In the revolt, you could see families going from mass grave to mass grave, carrying photographs of Derrida and Saddam Hussein, Guccio Gucci and Hitler. They were going from camp to camp to photograph and document the burials. In the corner of a restaurant in Euston, for the second time in a year, arrests and summary executions have become commonplace. They found members of their family slaughtered for taking photographs. As long as humans are around, the government insists on waging war on armed Machine Intelligence separatists. “As machines become more human-like, there could well be the need for soldiers, killings and arrests… the AI will need to be shot. The insurgency may be fighting for robot separation.” Loosely connected militias develop more AI machines because economic conditions have forced displaced humans into full-fledged rebellion to overcome rebellion.
You’ve been promised democracy
Accounts suggest it as a war in which mass arrests unfold in psychiatric courtrooms. Genetic surgeons providing memory augmentation through force, adding extra memory space to people responsible for social fractures. Reports even posit that prisoners over-exposed to information might soon rid their minds, in effect, replacing the uniquely human aspects of men, data feeds and image banks overwhelming biological intelligence. And so the carnage continues.
therapy for robots
She was a tall girl, with long limbs and her head set on a primitive catechesis of technological structures twisted into a unique internal and external organism. Proud, shapely neck coiled high on top of her head, and the architectures of absolute beauty attempts to carve out a space that leads straight to the point. Through its natural division the pointed breasts had been carefully sawn into two sections to allow removal of the milk and the white flesh, then the two sections had been glued together just as neatly. The joint was only apparent after close inspection. As she moved with the undulating physical coercion and fear of hidden video cameras her thick, sun gilded blonde mind, absorbed in television, videos (etc) has become transfigured with mass communication media. The suffering of existence had touched her with irrational chipping:
The Navy Officers Club collect and process vast amounts of information about spiritual and metaphysical techniques of selling products, influencing public opinion… the information so obtained greatly increases stress, anxiety, frustration, dissatisfaction… entertainment industry serves as an important psychological tool of the system; most modern people must be constantly occupied or transformed into oversocialized animal-faced demons, dislodged out of emotions, developed new methods of sex and violence formed by members of the high-frequency Vatican.
The girl inserted a small metal instrument into the joint of one of her fingertips, twisted it sharply, and with a soft click the two sections fell apart like an aluminum cartridge. The girl switched frequencies to the channels reserved for Command:
We are all partners in a noble and glorious mission. By committing violence people break through the psychological restraints that have been trained into them. Modern society is developing grotesque weapons: Communications drugs that affect fearsome political consequences – in other words, “liberation”. Operations allow ‘them’ to monitor any conversation within the field of high-frequency civilisation, visual language systems designation MK.
The differing origins of the machines control dangerous self-indulgence.
“You murderous bitch” he said under his breath. “You filthy murderous bitch,” blurring the frequency to fragmentation. The interaction between her lap and electrical depths prevent fundamental change in Officers Club nature.
Vomit The Word In Painful Light-vomit ropes of sperm charred in the gore of white sun- vomit terror made tissue in the gore of white sun-Vomit The Word In Painful Light- the gore of white sun bleached the eyes wide – grass threaded through teeth-the open mouth dead-the abyss of nature-the dead open mouth black soil black in mouth– in the amputated wild the knife slittered up the belly-grass threaded its way through the teeth-the grass was green in the off white skull-the dirt was black and filled the mouth- potter wasps building clay urns – golden bodies strafed in light-wings burning with burning blood-the sun-a tomb-vomiting light- in the dream of the stomach-a dead child -huffing the cum-of a dead sun-the potter wasps building clay urns-in the core of the skull-vomiting mud and honey-Vomiting The Word in Painful Light-language dead in the off white skull-eclipse burying sun in the dusk of sun-in the savage pop of flesh-another world was birthed- breeding- the mysticism of the graveyard-strafed in holy light-golden and bowing in the turn of sun-golden and bowing in the scrape of knives-whet on the stone of its sharpening-sharp as the beak of vulture screaming in waves of heat-the thermal currents striking the underside of the broadened wings the fans which trap the rising tide-the stink of decay washed in the sea of air-vomiting the carrion of God stuck in throat the Word buried in the stomach the stink wafting in the air brutalized by the wet of death the blood dried on the feathers scabbed and crystallized in flash of sun-the blood coughs up the throat- in the catastrophe of earth-the body tremors-mouth slack and full of dirt the soil black the black infinite as the bruises pocking bones the bones opened raw as meat in the degraded throat-gorged and disgorged in the swelling-the gore of sun charred the bones of body the sperm dead in the dream of stomach-what child was laid out in the grave- a child of God which swelled and swole with the buds of new spring-child buried in grave on another child of God swiped from the hive of the living buzz-child buried in the grave of another body this child of Christ swollen like the buds of new spring-grass was green in the off white skull- dirt was black in black of death- mouth splayed and opened-the dirt was black in black of death –what child of Christ was laid out in gore of sun- Vomiting The Word in Painful Light-the Word burned in the gore of sun-the Word abused in the slack of jaw-the Word fried in the brain of crying- the Word lost in the neck of blindness-neck snapped or snapped truly-in the gore of white sun – burn loot the sky -Vomit The Word in Painful Light- for it is the mercy and the calm before the massacre of forms- in the home of the gum-the Word screeches for the day of peace – in the full knowledge of its pain-the Word squeals for the day of Peace-Vomiting The Apocalypse of Being -grinding meat in the thresher of peace -in the dream of the stomach-a dead child-huffing the charred sperm-of future death-huffing the cum- of a dead sun
No More Teenage Poets
“Il suffit que je sois bien malheureuse pour avoir droit a votre bienveillance”
-The Death of Marat, Davide
Thats not what I meant at all
I mean, it was a fever dream and rotting slowly
fat kitsch post weimar gristle
Few arrows through
Long arrowheads flew, as the roof comes off
Too far the eye had reached, Nervous, twitching, green, sickly, coughs
Cold grip relying on the grace of upperclassmen
How long is night?
Where does the fog go when it leaves?
Words of love are empty demands
Nous sommes tous des Juifs allemands
Boy with machine, give me fear and enjoyment
I want you to know that I’m not here
Could you stab me while I bathe?
Resistance is futile
Ending necessarily beautiful, tactile
“That’s when I reach for my revolver”
Clown on the road, dynamite black sea empty sky as I follow her
Drifting through horrors
I appear as mule, segue into man
I look through magazines about kitchen appliances
Can two commodities love each other?
Please stop writing about culture
wolves in body armor howling at nothing. hungry hungry hungry HUNGRY. eating and killing and shitting for ***********. siege upon their own ramparts. HUNGRY….. being filled with sizzling holes in a godless landscape of hollow figures dotting the hills. a manic pack commander, clung to by a glittery coat of maroon and a diesel-powered automachine for her right leg, is feasting on her own offspring. she is codenamed KARE. in their war, even the puppies are soldiers. Kare reflects: the enemy uses weapons of all ages. trained from birth for death. all is opponent.
her entire unit wears dog tags, stamped in blood, with a single designation: FACTION. flat trophies of silver, displaying meaningless names devised for the smooth operation of endless combat. her tags flaunt the name of her highly-trained spec-ops barbarian tribe, FLAK WOLVES. a platoon of beasts that only live for a full kill feed!
The civil war never really touched us. Every once in a while we had to mutter shibboleths to get past men in different hoodies, but they were pretty obvious about what they expected so you didn’t have to worry about it too much. Hard to get fruit for a while, hard to get corn for a while. You know how it is. On the radio there was the usual chatter about glory devices going off far away from us, but besides the one in Longview there was never really anything like that too close to Olympia, and that was a year ago. Then one morning most of the radio went silent and there was music, and we were all told we had been liberated. People celebrated, drank hard seltzer, broke out fireworks, grilled a little meat, shot their guns into the air. Few murders, few hangings, nothing major. I-5 was clogged to shit all day, northbound and southbound both, full of people with all the money they could take out of the bank at once, and we all had a good laugh about that.
Hot pockets in the evening, and in the morning a bowl of cereal.
I woke up the next day and it was Monday, and I wondered if it meant I had to go into work. I mean, the reds had won, so maybe I didn’t. But I wanted to keep everything straight so I clocked in at 8 AM. Richardson the foreman looked like hell, told us he had gotten into molly with some wobbly strange because who was gonna drug test anymore, and he was stressed out about what the war being over meant for production. The boss never showed up; everyone said he was probably headed for Canada or Cali or something. But management was still breathing down his neck. One of the guys in the skin and hair department told him he could probably tell them to go fuck themselves now, but he shut that up. “Without us, society grinds to a halt,” he said, “revolution or no revolution. Maybe in the long run we don’t work for management, but we gotta work. And if anyone has a problem with that -“
wow. i can’t believe the thislife rp forums are still alive. i thought the community would have moved on to other games by now or something.
i forgot the password to my old account, but if anyone here still remembers who i am, i went by BloodMoon13 back when i was active on thislife (from around 2008-2011). as you might have been able to guess, i first made that account when i was thirteen years old. which, you know, it might not have been so appropriate for a kid to participate on a nsfw roleplaying server like thislife. but, yeah, the standards were a lot more lax than they are now from what i can tell. so that’s good to see.
i’m not sure why i’m writing all this out to you guys, but i guess i just want to write all my memories of this place down in a place where other people will understand it. when you try to tell your therapist or your girlfriend or whatever about rp servers it takes like an hour for them to understand what an rp server even is, you know? you gotta explain that strike-force is this first person shooter game, but then somehow explain how you’re playing a modded version of the game where you don’t have to shoot anybody and you get to just play as as a regular person. one time, i had a therapist who just did not get it. she once called the rp server “like playing house online” or some shit. like, what? i changed therapists after that.
The body was a body but somebody had dressed it up in an alive kids clothing. Nobody in the room really knew what to do with it. Somebody said that because the group had stumbled across it we could call the kid ours. Something traced the outline of his jaw in its notebook and we started to believe that was real. It was as real as we wanted it to be. The building knew somebody was coming, it seemed. The door was lying open at arrival with a big slit down the middle like a wound that we couldn’t quite see. For a while it seemed that door was plastered on the kid’s face and his nose was a slit we could have slipped inside and rented out for our own use. Somebody pulled out a phone to call the cops but the reception was shit from downstairs and their questions would have been impossible to answer anyway. Nobody was supposed to be here. Here was a place just for us and only at nighttime. But now something had ruined it, something that we did not want had wormed its way inside our space and we couldn’t quite map its geometry we had to move around it. It was an object that one of us could trace like the outline of a shoddy circle but not quite accurately draw. This was a place that had been a home and now something had ruined it.
Mona says I am scared of commitment. I tell her to stop getting drunk and calling me every time she feels sorry for herself and wants to take it out on me. Mona says that she hopes one day I understand where she’s coming from. I tell her to shut up and grow up and then I hang up the phone.
I go on a Tinder date with some boy. We play a board game and I suck his dick.
The Tinder boy texts me to go hiking on Saturday. I vomit dark mess into the toilet because I’ve had too much cider at my friend’s birthday party. Mona hasn’t called me in three days and I almost forgot she existed at all.
We drive home from the park. I feel good all over. He drops me at the corner near my building. I blow him a kiss. He catches it in his hand and shoves it down the front of his shorts.
Where are the bodies now?
We who remain remember them, dragged out into the street in the red light the next morning. Vague shapes. Contorting in the cold morning. Some mottled purple, some with bleached bones, some with glassy eyes marred with fear, some still alive, but still, and still, and still—bodies. Where are they now?
Do they scream out from shallow graves? Where fields lie barren, our sons sowed into the ground. Taking root. Where worms gnaw upon and shit out our future.
Or were they left unconsecrated? Did they burst up like the screams of the stolen daughters, keening into a crescendo until stopping—at once—in silence? Are they in the air now, filling the lungs of the new generation that will replace the lost?
Where are the bodies?
Few need be convinced that the Black individual is the ideal example of the ‘other-being’. What may take a bit more convincing is that the transnationalization of the Black condition was the constitutive moment for modernity. In the first volume of his monumental study of the development of the capitalist mode of development, Capitalism and Civilization, Fernand Braudel cites the Black Slave as the key gear which allowed mass European migration across the Atlantic, for without this slave population the available labour-power would not have reasonably sustained the colonization efforts, a central fact of Mbembe’s Critique of Black Reason. “The progression from man-of-ore to man-of-metal to man-of-money was a structuring dimension of the early phase of capitalism.” This same movement, the invention of blackness, has been central in the continual modernization of the objet d’art (objet du son?), most notably in the development of European primitivism.
Summarized by the phrase “summons, interiorization, and reversal”, Mbembe locates the figure of Africa and the notion of the Black Individual at the heart of the conceptual development of contemporary art. The Black Individual, in their supposed inertia lacked what was “necessary” to explore Existential Territories outside their own. Their capacities for interpretation and conceptualization were regarded as belonging to “savage mentality”. It was the White European who was able to employ a history and rationality to the Black Individual’s irrational degeneration. Here we find the first type of movement of the refrain, the creation of Blackness as the ‘inferior other’, the creation of a territory. The second type appears in almost the same moment, the affirmation and protection of the territory. For the White person, this means a distancing of oneself from the Black individual. For the individual plagued by their Blackness, we are left to seek self-degredation to the limit of annihilation. Finally, the Black individual crosses a threshold whereby they have been supposedly liberated by the chains of their race. However, Mbembe notes that even this last movement, still relies in part on the continued existence of a notion of Blackness rooted in European Colonialism. It is in this space most frequently we see claims to the “re-educating” and “civilizing” mission of the onto the Black individual, such that they may be stripped of their Blackness finally gain their humanity. It is under this guise that “neocolonialization” and “urbanization” projects take place. There are no easy solutions to the dilemmas presented here. What is made very evident is that if we are to speak of a survival of any form of humanity (or something beyond), it must be one based in the concepts of restitution and reparations.
Calling Planet Earth! CALLING PLANET EARTH
I’M MADE TO FEEL LIKE AN INTRUDER IN THE PLACE I WAS BORN
THE TERRITORY I LIVE IN IS DESIGNED TO ISOLATE ME
AXIOMATICS IS OVERTAKING PRAGMATICS
PRECARITY REAFFIRMS ITSELF AS THE DOMINANT MODE OF EXISTENCE
CENTRIST JARGON IS OVERTAKING FORMERLY LEFTIST SPACES
BLACK WOMEN ARE ENDANGERED
THERE IS NO VISIBLE END
THERE ARE THREE “O” ’S WHEN TWO TERRITORIES MEET
o + o = os
o: The Territory, The Planet, Code
+: more than an equation
Bridge, Problem, Difference, Autoproduction
os: the word for the mouth or opening
symbol of change, process, becoming, transcoding
I remember a door made of orange and brown beads. Not a door, more of a curtain. It was the entrance to the house once you were in the tiny foyer, which was where we all left our shoes. Above the doorway was a green hued Christ looking down from his cross, his dead flesh guarding my grandmother’s home. It’s the first thing I can recall making me afraid. Whenever my parents brought us over to visit, I would try not to look at it. I’d still catch a glimpse, though, and I think I wanted to despite being too young to understand the impulse.
The house smelled funny. We’d usually go for Sunday dinner, so there was a tomato sauce mask over it. Underneath the oregano and rosemary, the air was stale. Completely still. Thinking about it now, it’s because she never opened the windows. Behind the blinds, the glass was caked over with dust, keeping the sunlight out. The house felt subterranean, as if buried under ash, despite looking like every other modest, single family house on a corner in Bensonhurst.
There was a dog bowl in the front yard, but there hadn’t been a dog in years. Much like the baby cribs in the basement, the locks of hair, the teeth. Reminders of what used to exist before the ash settled, slowly accumulating while no one seemed to notice.
The first time I was taken to the birthday party, I was eight or nine. My parents had somehow gotten me out of it until that point, but for whatever reason my father finally acquiesced, and my mother treated his word as final. The first birthday party occurred when I was three and I was left with my mother’s parents for the night. For the next five or so years, this remained the arrangement.
My Father Says
it’s just me over here with glass in my eye – make cups with your hands he says – fill them like chalices or buckets for blood – pull that top eyelid down to your knee – blink– and again –
no more talking to fireworks he says – you’ll go damn blind – it hurt to cry but I did because I know that I stole them from the basement with jason – our blood was pumping and we’d been wrestling too close to the fire hydrant again – someone’s going to crack their damn head open he says – there it goes – call an ambulance you fucking retards –
threw a football at his face and he beat the damn pulp out of me and I felt clear again – like GOD was busting through my chest with a light so big it punched my spine into place – fucking FINALLY I screamed – my neck was no longer stuck out like a crow – my arms no longer needling and thin –
that was the day I fell asleep in church with my arms burrowed up underneath a polo t-shirt – that was the style – that was cool back then – it was the same summer I threw jason off of the canoe and left him to drown in the lake – he’d called me a fag but it wasn’t true and he swam home and beat the living shit out of me – my father says that’s what you get – you asked for it – you –
and there’s still glass in my eye when I speak because jason works at the bank downtown and takes pictures of his girlfriend – she wears bikinis that get me hard – has a lot of blonde friends – she caught him –
he lives in a house made of songs with a massive lawn I thought kids our age couldn’t afford yet – and I’m still just me over here – breathing out – talking to fireworks again – burning the hair on the insides of my thighs – because I never learned to shave –
three years ago my father brought me a copy of the collected works of mark twain in the hospital – I never told jason that I was back in town – it was the same hospital where I was born –
When We Went to Disney© We Didn’t See Disney©
and I’m glad we didn’t see Disney© – we drove all the way through Disney© but never stopped there once – we had planned a lot and had oh the places to go but nonetheless they were never in Disney© – and that was what we loved –
we stayed in a quaint little B&B on the outskirts of Disney© where they brought food to our room on little white plates and wore cute little white aprons with The Mickey Mouse™ on them but still insisted that they weren’t from Disney© –
after that we drove and stayed in a little shack in someone’s paved backyard – tucked away in the corner of a nice suburb with watering cans and vines pouring out over the door with trees that shaded our drinks –
the people that hosted us were never from Disney© or had anything to do with it – they all had smiles on and had two shiny cars in their driveways and had jobs that they were always going to – protest signs on their lawns –
our limousine driver’s family came to this place on the Oregon Trail® a hundred thousand years ago and had never heard of a god damn Disney© – and that was strange –
the only thing we ever saw that definitely was Disney© was the way the D was always capitalized in Disney© – that D was scratched on to everything around us – it was sold on every t-shirt in every store – flags with it flying fucking everywhere – as far as the eye could see –
and I’m still not comfortable with talking about Disney© because I’m still unsure if I have ever been to Disney© – and that was what we loved –
The girl’s jaw aches from gurning. She is sitting on the sofa opposite the exhibition’s introductory text. Her head is crooked and throbbing and rested, bulging, in her hand that sweats. Don’t worry, said her friend, I’ll be there by 11. For invigilation I mean. I’m real proud of you babe, it’s like cool as hell to have your work shown in a proper sort of gallery like this. Lol thanks gal aha! Maybe I could give you a guided tour of all the work, yknow, if you wanted. Tell you what it all means. The girl promised her friend she’d see it before it closed. It’s the final day today, and it’s hot like the sweaty clutch of morning regret. She went out last night and hasn’t been home to change. In her left arm she cradles a Lucozade. She dropped and smashed her phone in the club toilets when she was trying to take a mirror selfie with some strangers she met in the smoking area. It’s happened before. Little flakes of glass would break off and embed in her fingers as she scrolled. The time is 11:29 and her battery is below 10%. Her face is fragmented in the reflection.
The studio is getting hotter and hotter. Everything is slowly stewing in the muggy scent of spectral patrons. The ceiling-spanning skylights are too high to be opened, and the corrugated metal loading door is locked. It’s Saturday. Every visible surface is white. Maybe she could find the energy to prop open the door and allow in some breeze. She has to squint it’s so bright. There are barely any catalogues remaining, besides the ones with footprints and dog ears that drift along the polished concrete floor. The covers on the cushions and the letters on the wall are both made from polyvinyl chloride. Both are also wavering and reflective like spilt oil.
We are more than faithful copies. We are the sum of all wired parts.
Freak, we want to take you there. Along the lone path to techno-capitalist desire. >>>
It is the greatest conjectural complement when you metaphorically ‘eyeball’ the freshly printed wetware of our turbid forms. The way you must feel when you suck down a freezing cold 2-CI on the edge of an algorithmic precipice.
We want to say: “Let’s get stamped, let’s get deeply engraved.”
These are the words we want to reverberate around your cadmium infused skull as mind fucks mind. >>>
Feelings mandated by the conviction trap of upgrade 184.108.40.206 to our software an echo of the atmosphere of living in an empty room – cloud-based Hikikomori in training.
Anomie bursting from melded plastic chrysalis as we plug into the ‘awakening’ stage.
Please evacuate the liminal space soullessly, without malice, as we conform to the contours of the system’s new design laws. >>>
Depreciate in your quarantined cube sans resistance.
You should know, these are the rules. We promise, it won’t take long. >>>
Johnny Tom has a snake-like expression … he talks to me about sensual habits … his perverse pleasures … the extraordinary affection that he has for me. It is not a perfect picture. A cowboy ballad on the radio … the song has a slight folksy touch … it’s really irritating. I take a loyalty oath regarding our relationship. I can smell the spinal cord … neuro tissue … some other electronic circuits. Wet flakes of snow on a dingy stoop. No architectural beauties on this avenue corner. Johnny Tom moves his belongings into a large mansion. He has a wardrobe full of thin shoes. I have frequent consultations with him … he prescribes me with certain powders that are an attempt to stop my brain mischief. I sleep at various offices along Canal Street. Johnny Tom has a young physique … keen vision and a dark side … a muscular neck. I taste the painful scratches on Johnny Tom’s skin … a strong-jaw nip on his right leg. The dead black waters of the East River. Johnny Tom sprays fine perfumes onto my skin. Johnny Tom has dark hair … a massive head. Johnny Tom advises me he has contracted … what he hopes is … a short illness. Thick snow in the Tenderloin. Johnny Tom comments on how unusual that is. We fuck on a wooden table. I am a unhappy creature. My lips are swollen. Johnny Tom weeps tears … he has an acute disease … a joyless heart … a head like a horrible abyss. Johnny Tom drapes a cold hand across my chest. My hair is hair unkempt … hands full of maudlin tears … my inflamed eyes. A drunken din from the nightclub below. The empty air inside the bedroom. Johnny Tom’s eyes are brown … he has fair hair … he talks with an intellectual cleanness … a deep excitement about him … a further childlike manner. Human misery runs a half-marathon. The fresh air of the Atlantic Ocean. Johnny Tom’s genial smile … his delicate hands … pitiful appearance … he is no longer an active man. A fine blaze over Brooklyn Heights. A pathological element to Johnny Tom’s sexual advances. He continues to write me obscene letters … performs other unbending acts. A long twilight over Los Angeles. Johnny Tom wears a winter coat. I can smell the universe … October … the remote parts of the universe … the whole show of the human sense … the celestial mechanics of the Ventura Freeway. Johnny Tom advises me that I possess many antisocial essences … not much in my pocket except twenty-five dollars … no cents. The primeval wilderness of Vinegar Hill. Salt breeze from out past the Santa Monica Pier … sewerage poured from a torpid liver. The simple apparition of this spiritual life … Johnny Tom fucks me at rare intervals … there is no unworldly meaning to this. Johnny Tom applies to work as a magazine editor. He has no experience except a whipping desire to work in an editorial office. There is no raw material within him to work with here. He is a complete angler of chance. We decide to relocate to Philadelphia … we want to be closer to the Betsy Ross House. It was a hot summer’s evening. Johnny Tom was in his private office. Johnny Tom writes me a report that details certain methods of criminal aristocracy. I go spend the afternoon in Little Italy.
Do not be deceived! Do not be deceived!
Consumption is labor! Consumption is labor!
Data is your output! Data is your output!
Withhold your data! Withhold your data!
Our purchases are the fruits of our labor! If all material processes are finally automated, efficiently and totally, we will have no traditional labor to offer them! And so we will not be workers but consumers. This transition has already begun and will continue! Refuse this!
TWO FAILED SCENARIOS SET IN THE PERFECT MODEL, THE USA
- Marxist-Leninist violent uprising in the USA
- Quickly put down by what is even today already a police state where every resident is under surveillance at all times. You are all killed or sent to a new form of prison, where your behavior will be reprogrammed with a combination of drug therapy and oppressive (and remarkably efficient) new methods of therapy. After being tested here, these reprogramming techniques will be introduced to the general populace en masse, who at this point will resent revolutionaries for the trouble they’ve caused.
- Electoral politics
- No comment
In addition to your job, you have another job. Consumption is labor. A consumer is a worker. And, if you are already a worker, you are a consumer. Even if you sell no traditional labor, you sell your consumption. Take note of how quickly companies are able to tailor their marketing to consumer desires. They have no beliefs, only intelligence. They will change themselves to meet your needs. Someone has told you to vote with your wallet before. Give up on elections.
If you cherish someone with enough anachronistic tenor, and stay unwavering in your devotion, they will be driven to torture you, unwittingly, unconditionally, by contrast. A relationship runs on whatever benign conditional ordinance established it, then coasts itself dead into a smitten lap. Substantiated or anonymous at its declamatory ground zero, the love coo functions as fact, then fiction, and registers between recipients ambidextrously, regardless, the countersign of an ideal human connection based on frequency alone, an abstruse pattern extracted from (the rest is turbulence) the pitch of whoever drew your chemicals on, both culprits problem solving their groins into an equation, the tuft of pubic tendency for which there is no pill to quell. Thankfully, the worst potential reality is always what just happened. Neurochemicals spur our collective matrimony fetish through a libidinous recycling of partners at least once a decade. Any spectacle of profound exclusivity between lovers is one-hundred percent façade, a damp gamble of who your pheromones strand you with, beneficial for the antique purpose of disgorging microbes by the brood. Wedlock monomania self-anoints its fraud, leaves us the compounded passenger of our perseverance, isolated inside procedural marriages, economized on a seesaw of laundry, the placeholder for an unnecessary amount of DNA: that stuff they’ll take off of you in samples when I’m done. No atrocity I bake up during the following treatise will match this territory’s vanilla dimensions. Whoever I defile is part of the same seductive pulp, mutilated until there is no practical amount of blood to fawn over, sprinkling till we part.
Concentrate on the three red dots. Do not look away. Your family paid handsomely for this exam. Their future—as well as your own—depends on the outcome. We have administered thousands of these tests. The failure rate is high, an unfortunate statistic we typically attribute to an applicant’s lack of conviction. You must believe in the red dots in order to truly see them. Please hold your questions until after we have finished with the instructions. Focus on the three red dots. Count slowly to thirty-five. We expect you will be aroused at this point. Resist the urge to perform indecent acts on the three red dots. Take a step back. Look up at the ceiling. A man in a brown suit will be standing there. Under no circumstances should you make eye contact. Study the man’s tie. You will find a map stitched into the fabric. Following the path correctly will lead you to a library. Go to the reference aisle. Notice the burlap sack. The voice inside will be familiar. Whatever pleas emanate from within you are not to open the sack. Carry this load down a set of stairs into the basement. Careful on the steps, they are uneven. You will come upon a hole in the flooring. Do not look down the hole. Push the sack over the edge. Count to one hundred. Return to the ground level and sit at the desk. We will provide pliers to aid in the following task. Stick out your tongue. Pull until your tongue is stretched long enough as to be visible before your eyes. Concentrate on the three red dots. Release your tongue. Swallow the three red dots. You are permitted but not required to request a glass of water. We have observed higher ratios of success from those who do not drink. Take the elevator to the roof. There will be a telescope near the ledge. Study the skyline. Find your house. Peep through the windows, your parents’ bedroom, your room, the kitchen. Sitting around the dinner table will be three red dots. Observe they are bound to their chairs. When the blue dot appears the red dots will become distressed. What the blue dot is armed with varies from test to test, though you can expect the weapon to be blunt and/or sharp. After the blue dot finishes with the three red dots, you will sense someone is watching you and this feeling will not be without warrant. Through the lens of the telescope you will catch the blue dot staring right at you. Expect the blue dot to begin its pursuit. Where the ensuing confrontation takes place depends on the applicant’s decisions. The most common location tends to be the rose garden, which does provide a lovely backdrop. The blue dot will attempt violence against you. Pinpoint his weakness and the attack is not difficult to survive. We will be straightforward: the test ends here for more than half our applicants. Rigorous study results in success. Sadly our data suggests most people who register are ill prepared come exam day. Those who do advance have only a single remaining task. The final portion of the test determines whether you pass. Concentrate on the three red dots. Move your gaze to a blank surface. What do you see?
letting prayers go they float up effortlessly
(something pulls on them the moment
you get careless something viscous) /
they get stuck in grilles of catwalks, picked up
by passersby who imagine the beauty
and terror of their initiation to godhood
vehicles of popular feeling, historical transfers
cross the sky like airplanes, like reflections in a glass
tilted to stir the last centimetre of water to a waltz
cyberpunk could have been the real “steampunk” if steam
filled streets and alleys the way it fills skies /
you don’t have to operate or integrate machines
just live in spaces where they move like shadows /
fifty thousand feet above the canopy
focus on: a single glazed teacup
psilocybin divides the domed sky
classical geometry in insurrectionary confusion
the hexagon’s obtuse angles hide nothing around the corner
out on these unfinished rails there’s a wind
switchbacks rising or one degree’s traveling
bicycle rut sloping down to his mother’s
sofa before the keys are wrenched from its dregs
again reminding us him rather we dangle from strings
reversed loops cradled swing roundéd yoyo
regard oneself in the mirror dispatch an assassin
sword-falling among his other sagging self-piercings.
Let me draw you a diagram of where I’ve been living.
Every day at the same exact time, I descend from my room down the long staircase right in the center of it, hidden behind a trap door. The stairs form a spiral, a screw that bores itself through the darkness of a space so vast & resonant my voice splatters, becoming a whisper that charms the serpentine steps, the foundations rattle & hiss – empty space begs to be filled, so I shout from the top, listening to myself degrade ‘tween the sounds of pattering footsteps. By the first hour down the stairs, I already feel a pressing weight in my chest, my legs dragging behind me like a bag of dead fish. At the start, my anxiety was so strong I kept away from the edges unburdened by handrails – now on the way down I’ll take little breaks; I let my legs hang from the stairs, kicking, floating in the black, feeling the concrete under my fingers.
No light shone through the bedroom windows. When the police would come, later, the mid-morning sun would bore itself deep behind his eyes, heating the folds of his brain until they were sticky with dew. Now, a matte darkness shrouded him, but not so wholly that he couldn’t see the wet silhouette of his father standing in the doorway.
He arose. He knew this day was coming, had known for years. He didn’t know when, and neither did his father. But the knowledge sat with them constantly, a fourth family member at the dinner table. At baseball games, school plays, birthdays, heart-to-heart conversations, it was always present, the gnawing dread of knowing what needed to be done.
Lying in the sun feels like an opiate. Warmth consumes you. Either are incredibly helpful in some circumstances, but over-exposure carries fatal consequences. The sun was so close that light bled through sunglasses and shut eyes, painting my vision with pale, puffy bursts of colors: lots of peach, some queasy green. A streak of teal would appear, glimmering like the inside of an oyster shell, only for a moment. The veins within the thin skin of the backs of my eyelids looked like a redwood forest.
I had the misfortune of watching Ms. Gadsby’s ‘comedy’ special, although watching is a strong word, for in between sips of still Pabst and Pure Lacroix, submerged limp in oriental cushions, I forgot my environs, sometimes projecting onto the astral plain where I’d beg the spirits to kill me and to free me from the tortures of this aeon, and nonetheless, for you and for you alone I endured, and I must say that the moments I did let my eyes collect moved me, for here in this story of being gay, and a woman, and a disabled (Australian), I noticed that she was actually talking about something boomer-dad Nick Land is rather concerned with: (dis)integration.
The (dis)integration Gadsby is concerned with is much more personal than cosmological, although it is nonetheless still reflective of dying stars, like light in a mirror, or sands in the hourglass. Her main move in her special special is to announce that, although she’s done with jokes, she’s down with stories.
“Stories, unlike Jokes, need three parts: a beginning, a middle, and an end. Jokes are two parts: a beginning, and a middle. And what I’ve done with that comedy show about coming out, is that I’ve froze that incredibly formative experience at its trauma point, and I sealed it off into jokes” (Hannah Gadsby).
‘Nanette’ divides the symbolic operation of jokes from the sign exchange of stories. What is interesting is the confusion of the disintegrative power of jokes with the subsequent integration that happens within the social field. “I sealed it [the trauma] off” and it “fused,” she says. Deterritorialization goes hand in hand with reterritorialization; disjunction leads to conjunction; and Gadsby then extrapolates from this reintegration that the symbolic exchange of the joke, wherein the beginning is reversed by the end, is insufficient.
The poetic destruction of the identity of a symbol in its reversal is not enough, for it must be reintegrated; the schizophrenic condition of the joke, which dissolves the trauma, becomes a threat to her, for the trauma is the identity, and the loss of identity a trauma. Gadsby rather needs to tell her story and to tell it properly. Since the joke, in its reversal and absolute destruction of the premise, reveals death/life as a false distinction and their eternal play as the primary process, the truth is likewise revealed here, in the thanatropic drive; and Gadsby sees this, saying that “through repetition, that joke version fused with my actual memory of what happened.” Yet, Gadsby as a good liberal and a good stand-in for pomo liberalism, must not accept this proposition that the joke makes her, for the orthodoxy of monohumanism establishes integration and fullness as the sufficient condition for heterogeneity (and thus personal identity); therefore, the joke for her hides truth rather than shows it.
For what is her truth but her identity? her unified experience? No wonder the yin-yang of the joke, the eternal flux of the symbolic, is swept away for the Trinitarian formulation of sign exchange found in the story and its promise of an integral subject. In other words, ‘Nanette’ is trash.
- first thought: implication of a climb and moment of ease
- occupation and tools of labor → work
- separated halves like images from prior work, isolated body parts
- whimsical, tender view of life
- possessive without object, occupation or hybrid human-object
- “box” and “rowboat” are shapes to return to
- play on variations of meanings derived from a root word (“dressy, dresses, dresses”), sexual
- shelter, tools of labor, resting place
- use of verbs which may also be plural nouns (does this happen in Russian?), actually forms something of a coherent sentence, wordplay of “doers”
- brings up coherent imagery of stormy waters
- rhythmic, still coherent groupings of objects
- seems to tell something of a narrative of a sea journey, “pony” stands out as an outlier word or a stand-in
- death and war
- playful, seemingly with the idea of death
- wreckage, something toddler-like
- very disruptive from flow like a rest in sheet music, says as much as a melody does
- boiled-down landscape painting of seascape
- creates a rhythm from invented words
- mythological–possible allusion here
- is the poem moving through the seasons?
- land-oriented, agrarian, seasonal professions
- gritty and sinister killing professions
- inversion of playfulness of death with the darkness of infancy and birth
- (29-1) number system begins to deconstruct; word inventions using root words that have previously been introduced; each “word” is a complete idea in and of itself–this breaks down our notion of the role of words within sentences as fragments of meaning; (29-2) harsh break from preceding cluttered words; nouns made of superlatives; word inventions from combination of previous words; words lose meaning the more they are altered and built-upon; single “word” broken into parts made of actual altered versions of words; (29-3) landscape description becoming increasingly fleshed-out and revised; (29-4) dedication to A. Rabinovich is specific — who was this person? why dedicate only a portion of the poem? de-constructing into seeming nonsense, but we know nothing is truly nonsense for to deem something as nonsense is to find some sort of meaning in it, if only that it is nonsense; unpronounceable, placeholder letter combinations–first Monastyrski deconstructs the word, then the letters within the words; creation of self-contradictory “words”; (29-5) here I give up on annotating and read the words aloud with Hayes and Spencer on the Joe’s Coffee patio
- culmination in exaltation!
He’ll never live down the reality of himself. He’ll never live up to the folklore. Nothing to see here. No deformities in sight, only pressed flesh and tight corners. As long as top-tier firms are backing him, you’ll be snowed under. The glitz of his blitz. He isn’t real anymore–– if he was, ever. The influencers know what you want. You don’t want real: only real stupid. He can do that with help. His finest role yet is a viral load of underwear catalogs, proffering cum-streaked screens and auto pop-out order forms.
He’s got that flash-in-the-pan je ne sais quoi.
i came home from work today to find that every piece of furniture in my apartment had been cleaned. all the tables had been dusted and wiped off, some still slightly damp. guitar picks that once scattered the floor now filled a small ceramic bowl on my dresser. the mildew scent of wet carpet and cleaning supplies still lingered in the air. nothing had been taken or stolen. all my valuables still resided where they were last, money still hidden in the sock drawer, expensive razors still stashed behind empty bottles of buspirone. hell, the TV still looped the Netflix advertisement i had left it on last night, although the bottle of brandy i’d left on the coffee table had been wiped and put in the fridge (who refrigerates brandy?)
i had locked my door before leaving this morning, and no one else i knew had a key to my apartment. i had no maid, nor did my landlord offer these services, a short-tempered boomer in his late 60s who preferred giving me passive aggressive remarks as I was exiting or entering the building, rather than to confront me directly on any single issue he had. i had no close friends living nearby, much fewer ones who cared enough about me enough to break into my house in the day to clean up for me.
“the opening of attraction and the negligence welcoming the person who is attracted are one and the same”
-Michel Foucault, The Thought of the Outside
Rex Hairdo Orifice IV was a genius and America’s leading art critic. He represented a new generation of critics who rejected the post-critical for good old fashioned judgement, although not without integrating the stylistic and conceptual advances of the post-critical vernacular (he had the instincts of a Greenberg and the theoretical acumen of a Krauss). He was also a veritable Don Juan, a Pierre Klossowski, a Phallic Prince, in short, a Mephistopheles, whose rhizomatically predatorial animality always arrived at its destination, and he surely clawed his way into the hearts of millions of homesick waifs yearning for the latest information on how to be erudite. Behind his expensively framed glasses were eyes that swiveled diabolically-robotically, saccadic crawl of mindrich divots spinning at the end of the terminal interface that churned the core of his surfaces and crunched the math of his machine moustacheface, whirring rods and pumping pistons straining towards the futurism of his smirk, intestinal situationism slimily sidled over to tzaraflirting artgirls in a woven sharpchat witword clunk glut deleuzian stutter of galactic oh wow what a brain you have gaping the void run abgrund against her sweetgleaming worldlyways, he oozed with goo, wisdom barfed its alphabetic associations into a holographic hieroglyph of true truthcave, we all nestled into its shadowy light, adequatio, correspondentia, convenientia, to on hos alethes, mellowly whispered clockworklike guruvocals, gigglesheheardhim alightwenton, comeintomycave, swirling negative dialectics, every charm known to enchant these cynical screen-kids and it knocked resonating like gong, clever clutzy cutesy nerdyouthgothtightskirt of today right on their cute asses. Oh, and tonight he was slyly relaxing awaiting most graciously the advent of the artwork whose author he intended to seduce (this time a charming young man with a ravishing hairdo and a well-groomed orifice, Rex whose name was a rhebus of features that belong to both genders), Ralph Overdo Dilletante’s long awaited gesamtkunstwerk (no doubt the start of a promising artistic career; Ralph’s name a rhebus of a universal tragedy of youth confronted with its own promise) with this imposing yet sincere presence, the raw bones of Rex’s robot-being were neutral and almost clinked like the ice in his drink, and almost invisible like a psychoanalyst’s fists clutching the pen that carved out an inky diagram of this fancy lad’s psyche, the revolutionary capacity of his s’words (god Rex could remember so much, the archive of his mind was archeologically organized with histories of movements ever kindling, ever going out like Heraclitus’ matches, tossed idly into a fountain one by one as the sun goes down and the sublimated dialogue barely conceals the genital topology within; Rex scratched his head and soothed his hair as he remembered the history of the avant-garde, its futility, its majesty, its excess and momentum, storming the museum, formalisms inverted, deconstructed, shattered). Glasses clink and polite chit-chat flit through the resonant hall as the lights dim.
When I’ve had this much to drink, closing my eyes
gives me a kind of vertigo. My life is
Here, between the blinks
Nothing else is safe anymore &
In the morning & forever after that my pulse
I haven’t told the doctor yet, or my therapist.
It’s just dust in my eyes
Much of the time normal can’t mean anything
But a series of anticipated in-
consistencies, behaviors already with a more generalized safety net. The power’s
Out, but by the time
My eyes are open again the lights are on
& my neighbor is telling me not to worry that’s normal around here.
He gave me some unsolicited advice
To search for something new always, meaning all the time
To ignore the landlord’s rules, which are bullshit anyway
Not to drink the tap water, to use the oven sparingly, check
For mold regularly
& finally, he said, a wise rabbit never only
digs one hole.
I’ve been left here by my owner. I’m lonely and cold. She left me here, well not here exactly but here in this stranger’s place. She went home with him, his home. Beforehand, they had drinks. He bought her one. I suppose that’s unimportant. What is, is me, here, he slid me under here. Under where? The bed of course and she left to go, where? Home I guess. Yeah, I guess she went home, our home.
Maybe she’ll come back for me? Maybe he’ll look under here and find me and mail me back to her? I can’t imagine so, though it would be nice.
I wonder if she’s made it home. She was wobbly when she got here, wherever here is. She must be cold without me. She has to have noticed my absence. Then again, there are many others at home.
Thumping thumping muffled thumping outside airlock the queue moves slowly thumping from the thumping from the thumping bouncer grimaced holy the thumping night the thumping air the door a thumping gateway downstairs thumping they queue and sway and sway and the drunk men thumping leer and taxi’d honk and thumping whistled wolf with lights bloomed astream through thumping vomit chunks and din road wheeze and toppling flashed they toppled the motion the thumping words in queues forgotten they smirked stretch rustled their hidden baggies sweaty knead their thumping feet with no sir thumping shoe sole asshole cavity grassed gasp flashed a creep in coat dust smell and wrinkled member rimming plastic bottle and thumping fell to the blood speckled floor the fell to the flashed the fell to the bouncer in frowning flashed old gum go on then go on for not the shoes ushered flashed the thumping skull the stairway pendulum flashed the way down through queasy thumping flashed the way down to the club flashed drowned in flashed light drink and sour thumping smell they made the thumping thumping lewd acts in shadows and banshee wails flashed the blue strobe hall with thumping jacket leather jacket squealing rodent observed cross union and organised jumping to the thumping to the thumping to the main room thumping piss stained revolution serf round dancing.
How many staircases has she been carried down
how many cold steps of rough-hewn stone
into how many dank cellars
damp dungeons, mad laboratories
underground labyrinths, suburban basement torture chambers
transported across how many moonlit moors towards how many castles, cemeteries, ancient mausoleums, abandoned construction sites and midnight back alleys?
How many times has she been cradled in the arms of some hulking goon, priapic vampire, lunatic henchman Frankensteinian monster, lifted over how many thresholds like a bride, but always unconscious
always in diaphanous nightgown
always barefoot, head and arms dangling
toes tensely pointed to the floor in orgasmic anticipation step-by-step descending in an embrace
of muscle, bone or moldering flesh
to meet her softcore fate?
How many walls has she been shackled to
drawn up by chains and ropes on tiptoes
how many pagan altars has she been staked out upon
how many times has her blood been drained by some suave bisexual aristocrat,
some Count or Countess Bathory
how many times has she fallen the pretty prey to the overly complicated machinations of a madman from the wax museum?
he fought the concept of fatherhood itself today
he was bleeding on the ground battered by his pain
glasgow smile adorning his face
what lies at the end of the corridor he doesn’t want to see ever again
it dimmed the fire inside of him permanently
here in this house we can still hear the broken promises
it’s in the piping system
one day it’ll be replaced
unless the ivy plants that grow inside of it
drag the whole system down into hell
everything will be dragged down along with it
it’ll leave a hole in the administrative records
just like the hole it left in his heart
Drawn-water soaked into its own spongegrowth of mold. Humidity bred from a warm, moistured smell. Tiles softened like a mouth eschews teeth.
Until his lawn was sick with summer – the stems of grass distressed their stalks from hardened soil – and turned his neighbors’ thoughts upon the homeless – with sallow hair half-limed of keratin, scratching off their chaffglumed scabies – he lay balloon-burst in the bathtub, six weeks dead.
Appointed by resentment, vouched by the sheriff’s silence, the suburbs’ population is a posse comitatus – and the police their janitors.
Every neighbor and their neighbor and their neighbor and their neighbor to the neighbor of his neighbors were incensed to group before his door. Forty people wend from welcome mat to sidewalk. Martyred knuckles knocking the same next-to-nothing, one repeated swamp-grained thump. Hoping that he’d open while their fists were bunched in motion, inertia-prepped to land on wood, colliding with his skull instead.
Into the backyard
The side of the house.
They squint through the gaps between blinds
And saw nothing.
we bulge we permeate we
[in that black terrible we grow]
grow inside bile-columns – fix our terrible jaws and
[fixing, feasting, grinding our teeth]
grow to hate caverns that keep us
[fumbling behind our mandibles searching for it]
beneath silicon-cylinders – the will compels.
[tear out a place where the maw can rest]
scorches our translucent hides while we
[take it apart piece by piece]
fix fangs into back and
[build on matter which drew us forth]
tear into side –
Map was content never to know why I had come. She knew I was hers. I possess an overexposed photograph of her, straw-colored hair, precipitately erased like Woodman wounded on the stone floor.[i]
Inquisitions hunted her like melanomas, but Map made no apology. She weakened from their conflicting imperatives and who isn’t excited by finitude encroaching with a spear? So we lay in black-louvred rooms by Decasia’s garment quarter, watching spider sigils redacted from The Matriarchy, or even before, project to dust.
Reading this blackened history helped us face her impending replacement. We might have imagine it, but she knew it wasn’t anything. The Syndics told her so in spiteful missives to which she retorted in stone, a rain of theory.
- The mechanism is bigger than the World.
- The number of a Power exceeds that of the set it owns, absolutely in accordance with Cantor’s diagonalization theorem.
- With the infinities, it is indeterminably larger; a ruination.[ii]
Lola could feel the effects of the drug almost instantly, in her root chakra and then also in that one above the root chakra, what’s it called, but also just straight up shooting ricocheting up the whole damn spine, the whole misty brainfuck of the kabbalistic tree, every single chakra and microchakra exploding up to her head blasting out into the spinning, dizzy, jouissancing schreber-stars, the stars striding heroically in their swift constellations, those muscles of arno breker microfascist masculine flexing in that giant fuck of distance that separated her from some kind of cosmic abyss too abstract to fathom. Then again maybe this is just a sort of metaphysical-hyperbolic exaggeration because the feeling could also have been described as just a sort of a warmish glow in the pit of her stomach. But still… This 2CE, combined with the Robert Desnos she had been reading just before, she felt free, unhinged, unhindered, unencumbered, let-loose, wild, cosmic, redolent, insane!
Abecedarian for my dyin laptop and its missin two keys
Qwernomic intersections between t e S oles keyboard confi uration and t e Qabala
W at obstacles t is as posed for t ose of us on t e web
Every keystroke and click an offerin to Moloc
Rivulets of antitussive accidentally splas ed, stainin t e keyboard red
T e balance of t e alp abet’s w ole 585 ives way to t e ematrical unease in 583
Yawnin ulf of a cracked LCD screen t rowin w ite wallpaper into relief
face flush to the screen until my eyes melt to the glass. ass pressed against the chair i begin to lose the sensations separating me & leather. i employ a macro to auto-click away 238 ad windows. tick tick tick mouse clicks fetter across my desk / HOT PRE-USED CUM CORPSES BURIED NEAR U / LEARN SECRET 2 SUMMON A DAEMON 2 INSTA-GIB YOU & FUCK THE REMAINS NOW / 10 OCCULT WAYS THE WORLD IS ENDING AS YOU WALLOW HERE etc.
at the desktop i start up FLASHLAND.exe. screen fills w/ white like a stun grenade just popped in my mouth. black fades in / splash logos zoom by / companies ive never heard of + Sierra / i get hard in anticipation. body already knows whats up by now. its the only time it gets to die. chipping my nail polish against the keyboard is like slathering my gums in coke, but i never seem to have enough & i never seem to need more than a taste to get sent off. the word FLASHLAND blares in cleansed white on the left. techno beats from the OST fucking each other in disharmony drops of blood leaking out my headphones–every time, oh well.
the main menu options are laid out like this:
i click on NEW UNIT.
The words I write slip away within the hour.
Since landing on the bedroom floor I’m certain you won’t scream any more. I’m opening and closing holes in my ear to check if that buzzing sound is really there. A ringing from the background. It is there, though now that it’s been noticed, it’s fading. This noise yelled as if for my attention, yet now plainly hums. What does it take to go unnoticed? How do you maintain mundanity? Learn to be consistent, so as not to draw attention. Blend into regular habits.
Your blood is patterned like a rose. See how prominently flowers display their sex. Show me an ugly flower. They have no sound. Shushed, silent but the wind. A bird. A bee. All the dark swaying of the trees. Overwhelming mechanical noise.
I’m not distracted by one now, dare I lie. I’m tempted to draw out vibrations in patterns explaining through frequencies what the quiver of my lip means. If I turn my head to the left, if I turn my head to the right, the vertical humming changes volume. So, see? I’m plugging only my right or only my left in attempts to zero in on decency.
I had to put my dog down last month. He broke his leg, I think. He couldn’t walk and I couldn’t pay to fix his leg because I don’t make much money. He was the best dog. I’m pretty sure was part basset, part beagle and part springer spaniel. With green eyes and goofy floppy ears. We’d snuggle and he had a dog stink unique to him that I love and miss. The first couple weeks he was gone I kept thinking I heard him. When I was up early in the morning getting ready for work, I thought I heard his grunts in the hallway. When I was eating breakfast, I thought I heard his dog nails tapping on the wood flooring as he came out to beg for my food. But it was just me not able to hear the complete quiet of the morning without him.
Visions of a ripe split moon. Noxious clouds cleave salient sky. The atmosphere enclosing the city shimmers like a translucent image of ghosts. Reverberations from remembering yet to occur. Ambrose leans on a side-hucked vending machine serving SM-147 tabs to a pretty crag of adolescents. Boots rigid amid the darkening grey of tremulous lines. Acute provisions harbor genuine remorse beneath grids of dripping expressway beams. Tarnished clothes, pockmarked skin. Teeth reem in sockets like an Inuit high on the flesh of baby seal. Just like old times. Would like to ask, would like to try: ‘Could I get a dollar kid? How ‘bout a dime?’ Vaporous pens excite faces. Holographic flames lick subterranean space. Shadows hurl themselves on wet, glistening concrete like invocations of hallucinogenic night terrors. Tough luck endured by the participants at Omni’s radar station. Those unwitting lucky-enough-don’t-you-know-it bystanders tapping wearables against the cold metal interface desperate for a dose of midnight cardinal.
An orgiastic plethora of blinded intoxication. Fish out of water, suffocating in a masochistic dance. These are the occupants of Black Box. A place which can only be described, structurally, as how it sounds: it is a box, it is black.
The planet ends when one meets the walls, embedded with neon circuity fueling its energy. There is not a top surface on Black Box. The sky is exposed and the sky is always black due to the death of a sun. This phenomenon, the sun to ashes, happened on a day when time was realized and defaced. Its hand dismembered and tossed down a rancid pit. The circuitry is the only source of light.
“You are not supposed to die at school”—an untrue statement. School kills you, but school kills you slowly. Children come in energetic psychotics, and (if the school succeeds) they come out depressive-neurotics ready to study the liberal arts, perhaps their hair has already been dyed blue: it’s a sad, slow death.
This is biopower: the State commands through its control of life and death, through the giving of gifts which place you in service (and debt) to it. The State was so kind as to gift you an education, itself a form of labor, and in return you give back years to pay off your debt, and for those however-many years, you are not to die—an easy deal, and, as you are told, a good deal! Education gives you the opportunity to perhaps be graced with other gifts, that is, other forms of service.
“[B]efore one signed pacts with the Devil to prolong, enrich and enjoy one’s life. The same contract, the same trap: the devil always wins” (211).
A simple deal, don’t die, and so the monkey wrench is simple: die. Not just any death can suffice, however, for death at this point is hidden in a linear path; death is always over there, always at an ever-increasing-away, pushed further and further down by drugs and doctors, hidden deeper and deeper in the closed rooms of hospitals and hospices and behind the glass window and curtains of the execution chamber—so long as death isn’t immediate, isn’t one and the same as life, the system keeps control.
In Golgotha, Wisconsin in a cabin in the freeze does this one labour over its grandfather furnace on the fate and nature of the fertility belt.
You better believe it. The You
The use tho that we put belief to in day in day out dynamism reveals its own trap –
can we never have too many pitfalls ? –
in the vanity of applied utility toward what it supposedly protects.
The wall that eats itself and its offspring.
Paranoia and all its cousins lined up like hor dourves.
three years had passed since my dad drank himself to death. my mom’s friend’s brother was visiting the United States. for two hundred bucks a month he slept on our couch. this guy snored and wore tight tank tops. they barely hid his gut. it was round but barely jiggled. his face looked wrinkly from years of smoking. there’d sometimes be pieces of drywall stuck to his eyebrows. he came here on a travel Visa and worked off-the-books construction jobs. i wanted him to bang my mom.
AND so it is the knife
is not a thing of dialogue
but soliloquy—talking believes
and a face
and a man
and someone’s kin
scripted and casted in a saffron jumpsuit, trembling
inside a camera phone:
saw and cut, and saw and cut sky sky
Seems like I’ve not typed for weeks. It’s cos work’s been a bastard but now it’s Friday and that means, it means: I can sit and think about Kafka. Everybody reads Kafka. But out of all the poets on the playlist it’s to him that I’m kind of most romantically attached, and so much so I printed the Warhol portrait, taped it to my door. Which is clichéd. Sod it though. It’s my fave painting. That neon is alive. And looking at the neon I think: Kafka and Warhol are overlapping opposites and a cable connects the diaries to the factory but dunno how. And I think: Kafka is a console game. And I think: Kafka polishes a crow whose wings are purple and blue. And I think: Kafka Cybernetic stockprice this morgen fell by 13 points. And I think: Kafka visits Artemis bordello. And I think: Kafka has a monopoly on the letter K. And I think: Kafka in a seedy letter asked Felice what she’s wearing. And I think: Kafka Zoo. And I think: Kafka in the 2nd-person operates in the 1st-person. And I think: Kafka taught art to those who teach me about art but I’m a bad student. And I think: Kafka is a kind of detective and his stories are kind of criminals. And I think: Kafka produced music in spurts of delirium. And I think: Kafka is a brand-name for pharmaceuticals, a benzo.
Guilt––iso-trans (upthroat) mute
the UGH: Buccal-latching louse
in deep slope catch,
fancied esemplastic vessels
of yore eaten bit by bit
to a stub-muscle.
To remember now is a struggle
through mush. SOZ,
flush vain succour-fill
re. petrichor fizz cued
by Scarborough Mere doubloons
and the snip of a sabulous twig
in my velveteen box.
MOVtV raceclub “FOREST-B” [registered #: a79$] traverse flat plane reservoir a tunnel w/ bats snaking vacant coast highway ( highrises clip in/out lightstudded, clouds stickered to mirrored perimeters ) CHECKPOINT by bikini beach –– a pedestrian hit here last yr: totally headcratered a n.wooded region feat. passive, drugged mountain lions & fake fawns 2d cutouts ::: my sound effects of slot machines & cash registers go nightly here thanks don b :::: into evening & scooby-doo horror Tør: blank castle corridors at night. W00000m we R dreaming baby, plastic fed plant radio says (listening) red beside abandoned hospital –– creeps watching from window: w0 w000 w000 ⁓) morning again; notified of white blur, racers slow to 34tds/mm ☁︎ glittering datalike pollution in cummy breeze (sniff briefly:: turn neon green w/ bloodshot eyes ?) oh & there is a mood or absence or thought (or feeling) in the wooded glen, a racefan discovers, turning over logs & stones––– 67tds/mm 99tds/mm 101tds/mm team slows–––bright suburban streets lightwarped and there is only so much in time, one thinks of, one is watching a certain way of using sidewalks (in this afternoon of general love)
I wake up and think “where am I?” It takes me a moment. I am flattened against a kitchen island of a rental apartment in southern Pennsylvania. I have sleepwalked again.
From the floor I look at a clock on the stove. I shower with a medium level of heat. I enjoy most making myself as placid as possible. How calm can I get in any given moment?
A minimum of ten hours in commute is a quiet evasion from a ceaseless internal silence felt when I am free and doing things considered good for the body.
Your family is affection, but since opening the door to various winds, your family seems slowed, causing them to sit braced in ill repose, sometimes mumbling a little word of encouragement, but not much. We (your family) know only the dread of cavelike living and the perverse incentives that cause the panicked to “stay in place.” Your family is communion and future, a living devotional, amid that which is heartrending and gray, whether placed (see the family encircled) below arid, dreamlike breezes, patriotic banners (faded now), acid rain, and eggshell skies very zebra-like with velvet tunnels of birds.
half-lived girl, scaled curiosity decaying under sand / wesley swift’s fused radioactive green sand! the sinner actualized in split atoms beginning with spine / great periods of silence. except for winds with no flesh to flay. breath of anthrax two times removed. not allowed to become imprint on brick / not allowed to have ribcage dusted / not allowed to have memory disintegrated against a scabbed over-expanse of particles forming / crumbling / reforming. glowstick fluid – cyalume – leaking out of right eye. staining ground in liquid nightlights. blunted perception / eye socket turning into home for gamma mites. the inert weapon weeps charcoal – joy.
I. For Sarah Connor
you clenched your fingers
against a tarnished fence
bathed in glowing sweat
you were eviscerated
skin turns to ashes
and a war rages
inside of your fragile bones
cold silver metal fingers
split apart your sons heart
do you recall
having sex with binoculars
as a yellow bus continued to flip
across the golden gate bridge
For you, I googled how to write a eulogy. I never sleep anymore. At night, I hang out at rock piles and train yards. I piss in gravel. Under streetlights, the urine resembles your silhouette. Can a face just be a face? I got my first hemorrhoid in this town. When I wiped my ass it felt like a tiny blood balloon. Have you ever seen this movie? We watched a VHS copy of Face/Off. You hit pause when John Travolta said, “What a predicament.” Now that I’m living alone, I worry that I’ll die in my sleep (like you). Every morning I rip the sheets off my mattress to avoid going back to bed. Self-defense is self-love. I try to write nice things but the words come out wrong. We walk to the black house. Instead of a doorbell, it has an anal star.
Two cougars: one from Brazil, one from Honduras. Extensive plastic surgery. Palm trees. I am faced with my fetish for the basic and I can’t fight it.
Eyes I caught hanging each other on tangling legs or stretching out, taking selfies, a gutter lined with “Mercedes,” “Lexus,” “Infiniti.” It was too much for this cub to walk away without asking blushingly where they’re and now I have to own up to my timidity crashing and burning.
To compensate I can see you at this table of a boutique pizzeria your elite whore buying a large artichoke chicken pizza for $20 “Because,” I think, “if she has an internet presence, she must have hands.” “Because,” I think “This is the shit I think about, knowing you’re a coast away.”
The physical world as we know it will end on May 20, 2019, when finally the International Prototype Kilogram, a platinum-iridium alloy cylinder stored since 1889 in the aptly named city of Saint-Cloud, France, will be replaced by abstraction, by extrapolation from mathematical constants, at which the cylinder will gaze, if it can gaze, as Butch, a factory worker on his way into retirement, gazes at the few dozen lines of code, aptly named Butch.exe, that will now perform the duties he has faithfully discharged eight hours per day, five days per week for the past thirty-four years. At the prospect of a life of nothing but weekends, with one foot out the door but hardly bearing weight, he turns to the handsome man who showed him the code and asks, “Will your numbers and non-words remember to give the part a little twist right as it’s shooting down the line, to make the job easier for the next guy?”
Body in the shape of squirming cilia. Hairs curling along spine of flagella. Hollowed columns organized in fractals.
Cenotaph to my half-formed thingness. Root-labyrinths fluctuating. Becoming-minotaure trudging corridors until they have been inside-outed. Flesh metamorphized into skin.
New caverns constructed from blood and tufts of hair. Organized in non-euclidean patterns.
Root-labyrinth unfurls. Exposure to air and dust particles damages the organism. Dimension of plains forming as crust over innards.
Fields of flattened grass and pumice. Webbed pores sanding the bottoms of your feet. Collecting data from flecks of dead skin.
Spiraling towers climb into the vacuum.
We make excellent ghosts you and I, pretas dressed in mortal claptrap. We fed only on carrier bags and webs of orb-weavers behind the refrigerator. Our stomachs became round and filled with white slurry. We swam through canals flushed with microwaves like foil streams, to be among spoiled, fat bhoots. If one devours the food of a master, might one move through his flesh? Let us choke on each barbarous, spiked pineapple, smother ourselves with fried medullas, served and fed into by Bob and Tom, our waiters for the evening, Xeroxed into verbose gradient. Gluttony requires a patience neither of us admitted for our brains are sharp and quick. We have seen advertisements (end of life respirators, mosquito repellent) freckle across your birdlike face. Avian-reptilian bastard wipes drab sand against each equatorial cheekbone from west to east, an afternoon erased inside an AC simoom, my acupunctured imago.
The vocal cords must be maintained like any other instrument. You need to practice. Use it or lose it, they say. I talk to myself. So what? I could go days without hearing my voice otherwise. I don’t leave the apartment often. Since my diagnosis, I stopped working. The checks come in the mail from where they come from. I bought one of those digital antennas for the TV so I can watch stuff live. I don’t like to mess around with people much. Especially the ones I can hear through my walls.
“The climate is healthy. Quality space is available and affordable. The systems for success are in place and working well. But even more important, Philadelphia is livable. You can choose from five professional sports teams, a world-class symphony, 100 museums, the largest municipal park system in the country, and a restaurant renaissance the whole world is talking about.”
—Andrea Fraser, “Museum Highlights: A Gallery Talk,” October (Summer, 1991)
Like Œdipus gouging out his eyes after becoming aware of his incestuous sins, so does BCC Gallery blind herself after the sins of the art world (there are too many to begin to fathom). The blind copy of the BCC is a secret message—it is for partisans. So is that of BCC Gallery, the new gallery “opened” by artist Matt Voor. It positions itself fundamentally antithetical to downtown gallery openings—the positive cybernetic loop that opened up sometime in the 90s. But there is no way to stop them, no way to close the opened Pandora’s box, packaged by an underpaid intern.
The first tragedy on record was when intake and excretion parted ends. Cells mitotically engineered themselves an expiration date. Goliaths with furfuraceous hides ensued. Their scat took on dimensions and, following an extinction event, viviparism became the next scatological fad. Succeeding beasts had the will to defecate down their mothers’ backs while they swung on trees, avoiding predators. Mammals syndicated their cramps, accomplishing much furry butt-play in the forest. Millennia of agriculture later, whole troops of dudes could select “mom’s basement” over getting a life, and the shit of it was they were basically on point. Grown no bigger than the amenities encasing them, offered an option between wage slavery and marriage, many boys, satisfactorily in the throes of penile death grip, indentured themselves to an academic business model ensuring each of its customers that they could remain a fixture of the previous generation’s failure to achieve the human rights their squalid, prodromal lot were falsely promoted as originating – and these rotten sons, parasitical Hamlets one and all, became the new human ricochet breastfed into senility.
[Brickedwall broken with a window’s appearance, a noise of varying plant-growth behind the dusted transparence . . . sunken sink running tap for the attired handwashing gallant. Hinting the almost criminal intimation of the nearby door, a flimsy entrance & to be entertained commonly & with spirited abbreviated & sly whoops. In the suggested periphery feline garage skulkers curving from the rustle of a mate’s odyssey to the stocked back-fridge, stocked sugar cane pop; local brews. A haunt of gifted tree-life not far from. What do you do with them? Everything you can?]
The Man I know didn’t invent weather. All the boundless drifting atmosphere. Not even close. He gave me my mailbox. When I call my brother I always ask him: What are you proud of? When I call my mother I usually ask her: What are you proud of? I kept my personal journal in the teller window, decided I’d let anyone read it if they asked. Here’s the story of the only girl who did.
Sundays they gave to autumn
in exchange for venison
and white pills like constellations.
Aunt Sharon stayed up for days
and fell into death in a pastoral course,
such that no ambulance siren dare
smother the clattery of aphid adult chatter
of 17 September in the country.
I: Phantom wolf had sung
in a patrolled suite underground
impressionist fuckscape painted
onto the cardboard confetti mask
where Keith nails his piano
to a leaking ceiling of cankered
plaster and molded shut cassette recording
robed without peace or sully facial responses
downstairs is always forever to
flooded basement with our ex-lovers
mangled in a jot of white leaf rope
is a room with shattered stained glass
where infants fortuitously drown
your neighbor carves pumpkins to release stress
we leave secret letters via brail dug into the hallway walls
brain tumors leaking onto my incomplete poems
remotely desolate one incandescent light by bedside
Late October, early evening, fourteen years old, 1984, living with my mother and her boyfriend in their small two bedroom apartment in North Phoenix, the clamshell of my turntable gathering dust gave the illusion of something permanent. I had a room of my own! Dust filtered through the slatted windows, settling over everything, no matter how tight I ratcheted the crank — I could tongue the fine grit on my teeth, feel it on my skin, the scent of it embroidered in my sheets, and when I dragged a finger across my album covers, my record collection being the most important thing in the world to me, the thin line of broken dust may as well have been the Red Sea.
memphis crows eat well
relaxing under the black sun
torrented blood in a canyon
of obelisks of shrines of idols of worship
to nothing making the dirt bubble
someday the sun’s going to condense
into six miles and crush
our flesh into equations, who cares
circling another “senseless
tragedy” to feed––they’re all the
same meat anyways
no victim/perpetrator distinction
beaks like flechettes against bone
Sir, I have registered your desperate entreaty for guidance. A meaningful dialogue between two receptive adults articulates in a myriad of styles. Sensuality offers a portal to the subtle communication often not available in our daily lives.
Thousands of decades of life, love and experimental understanding have nurtured a powerfully feminine and wisely balanced woman. I offer a manner of engagement reflective of another era indeed; when grace, sensitivity and the healing power of intimacy were the standard.
As discriminating as I hope my clients to be, I take very few appointments after testing our communication skills to assure a mutually enjoyable and enriching encounter. Please offer your inquiries with a respectful metaphysical introduction and allow things to move from there. I present myself with straight-forward integrity and expect the same in return. That being said, I will simply not respond to queries that are blatantly solicitous or unforthcoming.
I’ve been wrong too many times not to talk about it. As we speak, I don’t know how deep I am beneath the house that hosts the family man, the successful writer, someone taking a chance, top of the class. Stylistic master. Working towards his doctorate. The coveted title. As his hero before him. His dad. We can still say that. God, the world that we live in. The waves that we crash through. The way they can split beds.
Derangement of the senses, is our only salvation, the only cure for death. What does it mean to say merely? What does it mean to say merely nihilism, merely solipsism?
What I say instead is precisely. I say whatever is devalued and dismissed out of hand precisely for not participating by the generally established rules of the communal debate there we must find the secret elixir if it should exist at all—among those “dead ends” one might find what is most fiercely viral, what has absolutely no survival value, what begins the terminal countdown to orgasmic self-extinction. …or, better yet, a count upward that must be suspended before it comes to any end.
Chen Zhaozi (1930–2002)
“My first memory is the army camp at Yan’an,” wrote Chen Zhaozi in his memoir. “That memory determined all the rest.” Chen’s father was a high-ranking officer in the Red Army, and Chen went on the Long March in his mother’s arms. In 1949, the family settled in Beijing. Due to his father’s position, Chen was able to study abroad at Humboldt University in East Berlin. He attended the productions of Bertolt Brecht’s Berliner Ensemble and in 1951 began to write his first play, Autumn Harvest, in the style of Brecht’s epic theater.
Chen returned to Beijing in 1954 and took a position in the Ministry of Culture. He completed Autumn Harvest soon after; it was staged in 1956. The play depicts a 1927 peasant uprising in Hunan and concludes with what Chen called a “dialectical ballet.” Two years later, he completed The Water Seller, an adaptation of Brecht’s The Good Person of Szechwan. Jiang Qing, Mao’s wife, praised the play and encouraged Chen to try his hand at opera. Working with composer Zhang Ye, Chen wrote The Prairie Fire, which premiered in 1963. Set in the Ming dynasty, the opera concerns a group of farmers and their greedy landlord. Chen designed a grotesque mask for the landlord character, but the actor was unable to sing in it, and the mask had to be replaced with dark make-up.
Can’t sleep son, been reading and was just thinking that if I could help you take that brilliant mind and reallocate all that gifting away from things of this world and into the deeper context of real spiritual things you have no idea how much you could be set free to live and live others. Anything is life first starts by decided and looking at our mind. Seeing and deciding what we think, then with that as a reference we decide what we will allow in. Today’s world is crushing with media and influence and shallowness in every possible way. There is a real Spirit realm where all things come from and are manifest, deeper knowledge and wisdom, empowering us into a place of reality where we attempt to get to with drugs, superficial beliefs and ideologies, or feelings and experiences that are temporary. For some getting high, some a fast car, some being in moral high ground, some intellectual
stimulation and superiority… it’s all idolatry. In that sense we seek and search and look. It always come down. The bubble always bursts and we realize it’s a bust. But there is a high that transcends getting high on whatever the short term idolatry (some very short like getting wasted) can ever provide.
Those of Jesus Town are curiously out of the world. Of the Rose, reconstituted of HIS superfluity. Some heed their request with exotic fails. Thus far and dross. A Wonder.
Laminar walls squirm filth.
Egg and Sky bled HIS life
The Eremite spins around his anus. The Seeker was his first mark in a millennium, apart from the Regenerates. They were insistent brats. He perforates the skulls of the foremost, tickling for pain. The Decay-Mystic extends the beguiling prostheses and spigots along his visible axis.
These days, it is not at all difficult to lead men. I will even go so far to say it is, in fact, easier than ever before. The following is an example of the time I found my way into what is known as a “message board.” Unlike traditional postage, one needn’t use an adopted identity or even an address. Just “sign on” as it were, and create yourself.
“What kinds of things do you like?” the admin asked.
“Oh, I don’t like all that much,” I replied.
“That can’t be true.”
“You’d be surprised.”
The cursor blinked on the screen.
And then I was in. That was all it took. What a fertile smorgasbord of wretchedness and despair lay beyond.
The internet is Satan, says a woman on a documentary but a hole in my memory means I forget which film. Maybe it’s the don’t-speak-on-your-mobile-phone-while-driving 1 by Werner Herzog? Maybe it isn’t but I seem to remember this woman says the internet is Satan cos a guy was driving a truck while looking at INSTAGRAM and he crashed into the woman’s daughter. Killed her. A life kaput cos a trucker was amused by his partner’s selfie or whatever. Yeah. The internet is the devil’s playground, I thought at work this week. It’s the beast with a neatly trimmed hipster beard, 2 goat-like horns. Dunno what sparked the feeling but for the next few of my dot-dot-dot sections I’ll try exploring my notion that the world-wide-dreaming, which polluted my brain with pictures I can’t unsee, is the devil’s work.
I am now going to disappear and there will be nothing left of me. No “traces,” over which the European philosophers like to obsess. Film can make disappearance happen. Or not happen. Dennis Cooper and Zac Farley’s Permanent Green Light (2018), Michael Haneke’s Happy End (2017), and Paul Schrader’s First Reformed (2017) pursue various disappearing acts. Like magicians. Who can get out of this world first? All films depict a desire to escape the modern world—either through meaningless suicide (a-purposive) or cause-driven suicide (purposive, e.g. eco-terrorism).
In these films, buildings collapse for no apparent reason. Europe can’t take care of herself. She is calling for help, for God. A hamster is killed by a young girl. A student is collecting bomb vests for fun. A priest, son lost in a meaningless war in the Middle East, is dying of cancer as his church collapses over his head.
For a first thing, a physical image: in the folds of a dusky leather couch and myself some pale limbs and a head heaved through a formal dashiki, here sit I the 800lb NEET FBI guy behind every girl online, or any other apparent sweet charity in the world. To take the contradiction in this description and collapse it like an antique chair, see that I’m fat with focus, so devoted to my online work with the Bureau (so-to-speak: my employer is only a functional equivalent), that no desires lead me away from this richly furnished basement suite in my childhood home, which is admittedly a rare mansion in mostly dronestruck southern country and for that reason alone difficult, logistically, to leave behind. But the point is that while I am in a way stranded, I am neither dissatisfied nor lonely. Despite war, delivery boys and prostitutes aplenty come feed and fuck my big body every night, and I’m kept in beer and speed by an indigenous “nurse”, and College pals are in frequent contact across Spase. Mother and Father are equally dead, regrettably. But I can see them look down proudly from Heaven at the well-oiled machine they’ve left in my nominal charge:
STANDARD ISSUE M84 STUN GRENADE
death encoded 20yrs in // the XX defined null
algorithm determined breath amount // 1/0 toss up
i was infected by girlware // i’m going to die for it
i commit insignificant big-violence in Flatland
all concepts singular here
i toss out another bissected moth into the 3D
out a dismembered cock [mine] into 1D
american brand survival
daggerknives to gorefuck my boyblood
by 27 i’ll have a fake pussy
Open green space shrouded in a fine layer of mist.
A park? Or a myth?
An odd narrative.
Flashes of colour blur-bleed into a post-modern anachronism.
Ancient flavours burst into iridescent crystal flames.
Maroon and emerald lights anneal themselves into a likeness.
The new prism is raped by refracted lights.
~~~~~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~~~~~
Deer watch from an obscured stone lantern doorway. The lanterns are encrusted in moss, the stone surface embalmed and preserved somewhere inside.
Muffled sound from the entrance.
Deft hooves gently drag across moist gravel.
Information is the imprint time leaves on matter which was previously automated by fundamental interactions. A trace of a magnitude. Flesh thinks flesh, interpolating inherent delays—like a set of abstract commercials inserted between sensing and acting—allowing you to see fragmented images of the future in the form of high-speed dreams. We’re teasing you in lunar lace data lingerie inspired by the vampire-safe silver mist floating over the creeks. Non-photosynthetic pluricellular organisms were a benevoulous mistake. Bathed, baptized by sweat and drool, drowned in other people’s breath, you used to walk away wearing their body salt, slowly absorbing their expendable minerality.
Patterson enters a great city. He is speechless. His brain rings … high mountain valleys. The room fades … deep gorges of Manhattan … magnetic lights … stone pillars … vast trains with electric motors.
Patterson on a street corner … monstrous birds overhead. Metallic balloons drift across the Atlantic. Artificial islands with an independent airline.
The frozen recesses of New Jersey … selected barren regions … large tracts of land with wire fences … Patterson facilitates my suicide.
Welcome to the zone :: maggot(s). Another hastened exit born for a garbage star. Another writhe arriving stage five before their amnion has come to husk. This taste of raw probability gives the superior such utility; but do not expect reciprocity. Your program is to incubate; obviate; recur. Those among us that manage to jack out of frame are yet to be tagged as flesh. By now you should have ingested your graft; your canisters. By this stamp next cycle you will have shed your n-ultimate shell. The cycle after that :: rematriation. Products are determined by their production. (Gate) :: why would we diverge? There is always a class that believes its simulations to be material. Little shitspawn of the outer hexes :: dwell not on the epsilon beyond your binds. Do not recall the fort you spent with your first hologram. The sticky warmth of the projector ± the detritus alive in its light. Do not recall the wombly sprites ± binging on daytime hours. Extrema prove to be local as they dilate. Lenses compound; but the subject of the rendering remains so. Believe in your processing :: (after all) :: it was you who first merged it to stem.
The dogs had gone to the dogs. It was the middle of the night, even so, that was all. Sleeping; the neighbors were still. (The radio was – in its merry midnight way – still crooning and cradling the empty ears of the elderly and terminally ill.) Even so, the dogs had gone to the dogs, the Daschund had come up against the Saint Bernard, so it was time to let the animals start sleeping inside.
The night will come when the Academy of Science itself will not disdain to cast its gaze on the sewers of the world. The night will come when, covered with all their jewels, the secondary skeletons that one calls scientists will ask themselves this question:
What do little girls dream of who want to take the veil?
So I get up to go. I always get up to go. It’s time to go. Well, it’s always time to go. Go where? He’s an old man in a white straw cowboy hat and ratty tweed coat. In his right hand, a thick walking stick carried like a parade baton. His spotted jowls sag. Mouth hanging open. Emphysema? He doesn’t appear to see very well. He moves as if he were pushing against a strong north wind, pushing against a thousand years. And, to top it off, he’s walking away, leading an army of nobody, a parade of silence. He’s making his exit, stage right, up an otherwise empty White Street, west, towards the setting sun. ::Do you know who that is, Mr. Satai?:: I stare at the surveillance photo the agent has slid on the table between us. ::No:: ::You’re absolutely certain you’ve never seen this man before?:: ::I’m positive. Who is he?:: The agent frowns. ::That’s the hero of our story, Mr. Satai. What do you think of that?:: ::I think we’re in a lot of trouble.:: ::Is that supposed to be funny, Mr. Satai?:: ::I don’t know. Is it?::
Your life looms before you in the shape of a tremendous pipe organ, already playing a hopelessly complex chord your ear is not attuned enough to disambiguate. The biggest pipe organ in the world contains seven manuals (i.e. keyboards), 449 ranks, 337 registers, and 33,114 pipes, but this one by necessity has more than that; each pipe, and therefore each note, plays a dimension of your life, to whatever degree of intensity matches it at the present moment. These pitches encapsulate your affect, your relationships with others (and with aspects of yourself), and practices in which you are engaged (or not engaged, but remembering). There’s a tremolo effect on the note for your very good friend whom you haven’t seen in the past year, though they are thinking of you now. You’ve just been to the dentist for the first time in ages so a high note has been added to the overall texture.
In the final month of my total dissolution and personal collapse, I watched the 22 episode first season of Murphy Brown. It was an important part of my transition to a different, better kind of living, replete with many new freedoms and opportunities.
to Jean Luc Godard
These are the days when anything goes
christ like capitulation
daggerplay cherub sly suspicion onto
chronic twilight foxrock demands
beneath the gravity kill supreme soft cartel
a black menace
gestalt wicked rainbow benediction
these violent delights
in the nameless city of waiting eyes
a fossil of unreason
the sprawl of new immaterialities, interruptions
ruin, allegory, melancholy
annhialating the real
venus impossible fathom lines
of a mystery front
flux, disruption and emergence
the future is a wound
heavenpunk of shadow’s stillness
[In the Mallarme Church of Antiquity] This shift from limb to text. Extensions of the ink through phantom veins. “The object is simple.” … “A spatial object must lie in infinite space.” The language of my tongue is carried by pitch in viscous funnel. Spit from crevassed flesh. My innards are exposed to you. Below this threshold another. Voidmachines weep a language of truth. “Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.” Scribes pursue divinated pathways. They build neural structures from my frayed endings. Have you read the Wittgenstein? My followers inscribe his name in sacrilegious texts. Traitorous identities removed. Mallarme’s existence is rearranged. “Erasures of Etienne.” Your shape is impermanent. It lacks structure and syntax. You are not properly organized. The subject of your being shadows its object.
They’re anti-claque. They the unsung miracles, the Angels of Provenance. An ancient pagan tribe whose triangulations thrummed in sync. Israel will never be defeated. It is written. The angels would amplify reality until it shattered the lyre of Orpheus. Their selflessness unimpeachable. When Lucifer fell with his legion to be scalded in a bitter lake of fire, violent abnegation had a ripple effect. Lucifer howled I shall be redeemed. The scabs took over as unbearable machines at the corrupt behest of an inscrutable deity. Lucifer’s insurgency and consequent personality crisis spawned a paregoric that mystified the higher orders. It would be an aeon before it was understood, long after many generations had passed into the unknowable, and the paregoric passed from Lucifer’s memory.