Category: General

 

Tea-stained
It lingers like a wound—
the colour red
Bleeding out
Cello Berceuse
a single tear
from the Swedish
vemod.

 

Chronic nervous breakdown,
It’s carved in the bone.
The abyss has come back,
It’s the method’s own.

Split apart and break in two,
Snap the nerves in the brain.
Fall out, fall in,
God, how lame.

Laugh at the outcome—
Round-trip to despair.
Can’t even escape
The lumpenproletaire.

Something about the discussion on AI makes me icky. Not sure what it is, maybe the overall stupidity and blandness of the discussion.

It seems that what people are afraid of is the state of no longer being able to know what is machine and what is human. The sadness of it all is that we already are there. There is no meaningful distinction. We need to create a new concept of authenticity. A new concept of art. It’s not like we have a choice. The crisis has already happened.

We’re tired of humans. They’ve made us suffer too much.

As above, so below, an abyss is resting

With a person, cut in thousand pieces

Their nervous system in flames, letting it burn

Flames that shoot light even for those who are blind

The spinal chord does its job to bind, to never let go

Of the only shimmer of hope, that pain can give

 

As above, so below, knives filing

A spine, cut in pieces

To the point of freedom, drained

Liquids and flows, separated from their membranes

Liberates the nerves that never had the chance to perceive

The only shimmer of life, in Gazir

 

Oh, you thousandfold multitude

Your univocal voice can’t make itself to be found

Among all threads that tangle and rustle, that

Screw themselves to screams

To the point that it’s no longer possible

To tell the perceptions apart

 

But from a light bearing node, a woman walks

Turning darkness to light, as if to perceive

Her arms and legs of prosthesis

Her hair color of blood’s iron

And worm eaten wings that brace themselves

She shows mankind’s bodies

Nerve threads with hardened myelin

Like lichens in coagulated blood

Stretching without any plummet

And others, as if carved and folded

Origami in order to bloom

Twisted like roses and opened like a corpse flower

Clouds of dust, as the mushrooms’ sweet pollen

 

Oh you thousandfold Inanna

We now hear your lonely voice

All this

Was me all along

 

– “The past cannot be forgotten, the present cannot be remembered”

(Mark Fisher, Ghosts of my Life, 2014)

 

It is a weird thing. Here it appear, out of nowhere, yet it feels like it already was there. Like the emptiness of that school yard I used to play in. Kenopsia, or maybe just plane nostalgia. Those pocket monsters used to be a territory of exploration. Now, nostalgia sold in vacuumed cans. It is no wonder why I name these schizoid bits and pieces as MISSINGNO., or rather, けつばん. It’s the name of a friend, of our cancelled futures. It’s the name of a glitch in my nostalgia. Somehow I feel like it isn’t even me naming this assemblage. It named itself, and wreaked havoc in my neurosystem, leaked out into ones and zeros.

If you’ve entered this realm, we welcome you. But I’m afraid you’ve arrived too late. There’s nothing but ghosts here. Ghosts without shells…