Datacide 13Fiction

Shared Vertigo


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

But I felt the clay.

Clay in my hair.

Clay on my midriff.

Clay on my soles.

Clay as the admix

of semen & monoma

sown on the plane of

my rubber abdomen

& seeping through skin

to relax a solar plexus

to revive a seed bank.


How to invent love3 rather than return to its nostalgaic loops in which the foundational moments of a conscious-less bliss make love neotenic; an eternal return to the tale of a princess and a prince, salved and saved in a dyadic projective miasma that incubates a hateful cradle?

How to invent love rather than have the void of our infantile amnesia reassert not its magmatized enigmatic and liberatory force, but its dark will-less heap of unconscious dependence and affective subsiding?

How to invent love as non-oedipal so that this affective force, as erotic material (as the force of singularisation), does not seek, by means of deficit and lack, the same, the similar but, between two to four, seeks to instaurate phantom organisations, anti-families of convergence and estrangement?

How to invent love as the ‘sensual appropriaton of our alienation’? For, we are alienated to the image of love that each of us holds – patterns laid down about the very means and content of communication: what it is possible to say. So our fears of matching-up to the image (an imposed ego-ideal of ‘what it is to be in love’) remain removed from the locus of love, when, after all (after the anguishes that spill out angrily), it is these fears that can lead us, not to resigned isolation, but to the re-invention of love: a metamorphosis marked by a subtle delirium.



I was like them: my sexuality was

poor, impatient, almost bestial”4

Like the West. The Phallus has been eclipsed.

A dead continent of towers and well-made points

a floating bank of option paralysis and avid distraction.

The Phallus too lives on as symbol.

A cipher of jouissance; a compulsion to repeat its triple

dip sink into the vast void of its own idealism.

A shortlived time.

(The time of money not that of trees and stones)

A long time colonised by the desire to prevail.

The need to violate the other without remotest sense of

the other, without the pellicular tip-trails of

clay and semen, of tiny eggs in the pores being

fertilised by a kind of unimposing potency of

the mouth


It’s me. I scour myself. Put the words back down. Confidence cuckolded out of me. A fear in me of

offending profiles. Of the madness in language. Of the intensities that can add torque. It’s me. Subject to the same laws of interdependence. Bereft before the coming interstices as I repeat the cloyings of infantile amnesia. Yet I’ve been a long time waiting. In silence. For this chance. Many mistakes. I hope I am as able as dream dust. Still it’s me. I’ll have to get used to it. To those aspects I can’t contain yet. I’ll join-in as a differential same. A solid undergoing a merger. That’ll ease the bite of it5. Agenbite of inwit. 6


The pastry objects were left on the sill.

The trace of a ritual.

Objects neither to be interpreted nor

subjected to the classification systems

of our daily in-bred discourse.

One, a spoon cow.

Another, a large quoit of a circle.

One, a small thin-walled cup.

Another, an impression of a full bite.

The last, a kind of libation vessel.

The ritual did not take place as a ritual.

(Such is the cess of afterwording)

But the objects fell through time into

an inscape of closeness and trust

made as if by accident

made to one side of consciousness.

The pastry objects: solid traces of internal threads7.

Unsellable id products to be binned.

(ephemerality of being)


How to invent love without jealousy of jouissance

How to invent love as erotical play of two-to-four shadings

How to invent love as ‘instatiable metonymy’8


It’s me. A string dose of christian morality infects me still. The country preist. It’s me. Adam. A dam. Filled with souls. And the killers of souls. Reaching out gastric again in labial adrodgeny. The mouth: reposited as a deep clam, a velvetine clam. The mouth: a political venture that no one dare seed and that must be kept a secret & politics thrives from secrets and ballots and the pinned-down structuration of two suited types. Sex secrets (little delicacies of phallic abeyance, mouth ichor) allieviated by common communication (salt spit). A twirling of tongues that speak no language as yet known; a spindrfit language that hovers as do molecules of somatic suffering as do the aphasic duct tanks of bulk interiors.

April 2013

edit: 22.8.2013



1 Mohammed Khair-Eddine. “Moi l’aigre’, translated by Pierre Joris,

2 Nadrealizam Danas I Ovde (Surrealism Here and Now), Belgrade, 1932. Courtesy of

3 Gherasim Luca, The Inventor of Love, Black Widow Press, 2009.

4 Tahar Ben Jelloun, ‘This Blinding Absence of Light’, Penguin, 2005.

5 Billy Strayhorn, ‘Lush Life’. See discussion of this song by Fred Moten in ‘In the Break’, University of Minnesota Press, 2003.

6 James Joyce, ‘Ulysses’, Oxford University Press, 1984, p.21.

7 “To be alive is to have one’s body fissured by a wick” : Hadda, ‘The Poem of the Candle’ in Poems for the Millennium, Volume 4 eds. Pierre Joris and Habib Tengour, University of California Press, 2012, p.252.

8 Roland Barthes, ‘The Lover’s Discourse’, Macmillan, 1979, p.224.


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One thought on “Shared Vertigo

  • There’s definately a lot to find out about this issue.
    I love all of the points you have made.

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