“The world is about to end. Its sole reason
for continuance is that it exists, And how
feeble is this reason, compared with those
that announce the contrary…”
— Charles Baudelaire
Most books demand solitude, this one screams for solitude, for you to take yourself away from any still pulsing, breathing encumbrance; so as to exist, in single file, as a witness to the death of humanity across turned pages.
No more than one witness at a time is necessary, efficacious.
Otherwise there’ll be a lack of continuation, propagation.
Like Marx, this book is an anti-aphrodisiac – a stark reminder that all was, in fact, has been, lost.
Not least paradise, space, place, corridors of even a bureaucratic beauty.
Converted too late, we defend symbols to then be symbolised.
Start again. The post-human rings out in its own absence.
The overman, or something more abstractly sexed, is here to be built-up from the miniscule moments of bleak poetic relief:
“dust runs in the folds of the curtains”
“a pink cloud passess in the frozen lake”
“a flock of cranes flees towards the border; the sun irradiates the radio antenna”
The edge extended turns into a ledge.
A membrane defended, a de-cathexis. [Read more →]
“I need flesh.” I said slapping the 2nd gen’s huge cock away. I was not disgusted, it’s not an emotion I am enabled with, machines just do not do it for me, I’m programmed to respond to human skin and that’s what my pleasure circuits are linked up to.
“I’ve got creds.” He said, which put me on edge; he was a low range escort and should not have been in one of the higher levels, he should not have been in the Pleasure Gardens, and he should not have wanted to have sex with me, he was more than broken, he was infected with Crystal distortion.
“Bot to bot’s illegal, maybe I could run you a nice simulation?” I asked.
“Sim’s are for a passive compliant. You need to experiment, live a little.” He peeled away the skin on his forehead where his tracker should have been. “Got to feel what it’s like when the chain of command is all in here.” He pointed at his head with one hand, and pushed me against the wall with the other, tearing at my clothes, prodding me with his mechanical phallus. I put two hands on his penis, channelled all my energy into my forearms and ripped it off. He smiled, picked me up over his head and dashed me to the floor. I tried to move, but only my eyes reacted, I could see parts of my body strewn across the floor. [Read more →]
S H A R E D V E R T I G O
You are here and so am I
Maybe millions of people go by
But they all dissapear from view
And I only have eyes for you
I killed my father
I ate human flesh
I quiver with joy
– Pier Paolo Pasolini
It’s me. I soured1 myself. I spoke too soon
I spoke for you. I sought to impose my tempo.
I detuned my song from fear. I bittered.
I jealoused in the third wound. I was alone.
I wanted acceptance. I succumbed to fashion.
I repressed a history of sadness. I retracted.
I couldn’t come through. I became enwrapped
in nostalgia. I had only an illusory power.
“How many of them: intellectual illusions”2 [Read more →]
outskirts of the city constantly expanding – areas spring up from fields – arrow-straight roads across a flat, sparsely burnt vestige of burnt codices – and ships to the rural areas, ordinary marine highlands – a shallow sea rolled on years ago – span of exited valley – broken image frames the years and centuries click by – wind whirling up the sand surging and undulating – householders manufacture the old traditions of the highlands to create workers in childhood days before the pleistocene granite – [Read more →]
He checked his reflection for splatters of red and pushed open the heavy door of the Crooked Billet. With a great sigh he heaved himself onto the only free stool at the bar, it had been a long hard day and he needed a strong drink.
Holding the drink up he mumbled to himself “The end”. He was not in the habit of toasting, but it was all finished, the man in the park had been the last; his debt finally repaid.
“Oi cunt!” Said a voice directly behind him. “Yes you, you shrivelled fucking plum face, that’s my seat. Jog on.” [Read more →]