Everything Becomes Apparent Today I lie in a split pig carcass, Counting the “way” of the Milky Way. It is from here that death dithered, from this point we were sequestered. Absence is descent, no name is catastrophic, in the follicles of my sibling swine, I count the decades of my decomposition.

War as Viewed from the Disney Imaginary In a globalized world pining for authentic and visceral feelings, it is the integral violence of the Russian invasion of Ukraine that spoons our hooded contempt for the unknown past our eyes, across our lips. The accepted stories worked on us better than predicted by the decimals of Mass meta-archives; the models that encompass our festering lust and plan out how these things unfold.

The Ukrainian war is not taking place. The invasion of Ukraine by Russian forces is undoubtedly a violent and heartbreaking situation. But I want to talk about our reception of this event in the west. …

Poem 24 Age is unintentional asceticism, the relinquishing of corporeal order in the dusk of a singular life. There is a myth of Thanatos, but that is a psychological snuff, a tired deferral to a relational reprieve that suits our boring expiration and lust for loneliness. Rather than finding bliss in oblivion, death could reign over life, not unconsciously, but in a reciprocal posture. In this world, global and local are co-terminus and the decomposed are our perpetual ushers.

Poem 23 We have cheapened the stakes of criticism on others and ourselves. Lives assembled in the froth of signs are fragile in their all-cost immanence. As with the social, the virtual is nested in the lucid dream of utility, and as with capital, it thrashes and mutilates. All signs must burn. We must refuse to consume status. Rapture is the wrapping of flesh in ambivalence.

Poem 22 Humiliation thunders over daily expectations, sewing you into a place-time kitted out for you by yourself. Friends are vapor, daily capital is suctioned from your arms, you are pissing away the negatives of images you thought you would adore. Stirring and feckless, the fright encases you around the neck, fruit flies carpet your throat when you try to speak, you choke. Bigger insects crowd in.

Poem 21 It used to be that production was tied to work, today product has saturated every intention, all interaction, awake and asleep. The performers are not on the stage, but they shuffle down the aisles of every market, all clinics, across the cemetery walls. Words blister in front of so much electric sap. The dead gods inject our amygdalae with straws. Plastic and toxic; slurping shades of lapis lazuli keep us productive, even and especially when we lose our faculties to shit it away, to be offensive. To dream like a person.

Poem 20 Truth gets between the dried creases of a hectar of faces. Imploded and abandoned it is smeared away in the grimaces of children desperate for identity packets. No irony, no affect, nothing but the amble of the imbibing of objects; a canyon-whistle blaring into green turf and red sand. In the crisis of eternal return, we drop will at the threshold of interminable subsumption. In the petty frocks of our androgynous and reversed word bureau, cascades of disdain and resentment Velcro to the next pass of inevitable rebirth and vomit on the curse holding our faces to the millstone.

Poem 19 Life here is spent steeling oneself away, tilting into the shade as paradigmatic trauma creeps across your lips and worms into the fat and tendons keeping us strapped in and awaiting fate. Before now, mistakes were interpellated as themes of living; embraced as pure event and forgiven with sighs or the wipe of flannel sleeves across the forehead fountain. Now we are bludgeoned towards life, our hands waving back the mass disarticulation of every breath, every critique, every thought. Words pummel us like night guards, palindromic mannequins feast on our shame.