OEDIPUS by Sixes

AGENT: OEDIPUS (RIKO KOIZUMI)
MECHANIZED CAVALRY FRAME: JOCASTA ([REDACTED] CLASS TECH ASSAULT MECH)
ON-BOARD AI: ANTIGONE
MISSION: ASSASSINATE SECRETARY [REDACTED]
LOCATION: [REDACTED]
DATE & TIME: [REDACTED] 21:11

——//BEGIN TRANSMISSION//——

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

Continue Reading OEDIPUS by Sixes

STREET SAUCE by Dale Brett

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.

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Disintegrating Links by Xenolalia

PLASTIC SWEAT

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
in half
Divided in 2 like a thin blue
line.

Continue Reading Disintegrating Links by Xenolalia

How to be a Realistic Artist: An Interview with Shannon Lucy by Marcus Mamourian

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. 

Continue Reading How to be a Realistic Artist: An Interview with Shannon Lucy by Marcus Mamourian

Therapy for Robots – Part I by UrbanMaoism

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.

 

Continue Reading Therapy for Robots – Part I by UrbanMaoism

Void Worship by SMH

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

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Two Poems by EC Schulman

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

Skin itching

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

Anti-midas,

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

Continue Reading Two Poems by EC Schulman

the Flak Wolves perish on the first sunset of winter by MIKA

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!

Continue Reading the Flak Wolves perish on the first sunset of winter by MIKA

Genesis 17:17 by Paris Green

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 -“

Continue Reading Genesis 17:17 by Paris Green