Gnoziz
With time extending indefinitely and event horizons torn from me perpetually, as in hurricane winds through my phantom bedroom, reportage advances into the teeth of the gale force.
I understand the Mind of God better than the Heart of God, voice out of the whirlwind more than sustained divine grace. But as soon as I say that, the reverse is true.
I hack new vectors of meaning, machete in hand for the vaporous vectoralist hyena class, last bastion of capitalist appropriation of what it does not produce.
Of course we should keep in mind broadening definition of capital, rather than knee-jerk demonization thereof, then a dynamic embrace of the integral needs of all necessary participants becomes a new radical natural capitalism. Pastoralists, farmers, capitalists, workers, vectoralists, hackers, finite fossil fuel to infinite hydrogen. Wark and Lovins/Hawken as our hybrid tour guides.
I live in the sandstorms of time longer, but it only makes me less visible.
The horror poetry of her beauty stirs me, she of unknown soul marrow. She of the bodily power points.
When I crank out guitar chunks like song ideograms now, I hear the ticking of biological clock time louder. I listen to the mysterious source of my own voice soaring into nonwhere.
The road to hell is other people continues to be paved with alleged good intentions.
Whirlwind’s a nanotech swarm of molecular desiring-machines out of which this voice hums.
Every lover’s an aggregate hive of inexplicability. All our alien fantasies are intuitions of this reality.
I went looking for the arena in order to turn attention into bank currency. I want to buy nanobot swarmfucks from Planet Xenon. In the arena I’ll perform psychosurgery on bankers and barracuda appropriationists. But you can’t get there from here because Zeno keeps breaking the distance down into smaller and smaller measures so you never arrive.
A nanobot swarmfuck constantly shifts appearance within desirable parameters, novelty on glistening overdrive until the credit chips evaporate.
“She” is a muted neon parade of all the goddesses in my horizontal bop lineage. Programmed nanobot hive mind. Shapeshifter. Silken electricity humming.
Your buddhic aggregates in full-swooning glory, non-self delirious cool.
I dug these wordz up Nag Hammadi-style, in the desert of Egyptian enigma. Scroll down and more will miraculously appear.
Mayhaps memes of 8-ball oracular relevance.
No one speaks of the banal translations of ancient banal-or-not scriptures, nor the implicit imperative to write scripture, gnomic Gnostic calling.
Epigram, maxim, aphorism, proverb, adage, gnome, axiom – all terms for concise prose or poetry of a witty or instructive or paradoxical nature.
“The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.”
So I fashioned a heavy-duty black leather and steel-toe combo to go on a door-kicking spree. Behind closed doors, there are always these powerful paper abstractions with suits attached ratcheting an exploitative, appropriationist percentage of original production, because the source of same doesn’t know how to leapfrog the logjam of business-as-usual.
I didn’t want my stretched-time faux immortality enchained to life in archon hell.
Like Burt Lancaster’s mythic nutbar in The Swimmer, plunging into a series of swimming pools, I’ve got to find my way back home kicking down doors, and sledgehammering conventions, ‘cause the bio-clock is ticking for living on my own full recognizance.
“It is a tale told by an idiot, all sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
The no-thing is breathtaking.
We could hang with freeze-frame martial arts kicks, followed by a furious gratuitous bloodfest, to the glee of all; I could name a building after my hardon, but I’m afraid those actions distract me from the mission of burning through our social soulcores with a magnifying glass under the midnight sun.
This is not negotiable. Only the resurrected invasion of the daily reality dreamscape by a Mystery beyond compare avails.
Alien is the radiant Source. Deleuze said parody is more profound than reality or imagination. Certainly delineation of reality formations irreverently obviates banality and mere fancy, respectively. Blakean Imagination seems a numinous realm, omnijective, other. Reportage: tabloid politics. Indeed, parody may be the only responsible cognitive mode in a world where violent stupidity is ritualistically sentimentalized as normal institutional developments.
Eat the rich, indeed. Eat what eats you, sinner saint. Appropriate the appropriation. What eats me is lack of currency on intelligent terms. So I eat the lack of currency, meaning there is no lack, and that I am currency. Trump, for all his blowhard nonsensicalness, showed he had the right stuff when he told the investors who had apparently lost a big bundle on his daydreams that the only way to recoup was to continue to bank on the Trump name being synonymous with bold winning, not bankruptcy. Embody an emblazoned brand thoroughly, and you are, indeed currency itself.
“We don’t need no education. We don’t need no thought control.” Grammatically ironic, of course, but that song from The Wall, and its attendant imagery of education as children on a conveyor belt ground into sausages, overlaps with time’s slow grind of the physical body into death.
But fortunately, the destiny of attention itself is more profound. Besides, the meat body was practically made of nothing at the subatomic level. Something very strange is going on here. Lean buddha mind’s a vector unbound from sheaths of identity formations.
The story is, the story is. Attention’s mutations. Once we did not see 3-D depth perception, what is called in painting, perspective. Before 13th century Petrarch a literally flatter dimension of inner and outer. Ego-centeredness is a mutation out of the mythos of collective psychic reality.
What passes for scripture is mostly obscene. Religions are mostly obscene. Shocking the intervals of programmed tangents leaves you standing alone in a clearing with the stark wind of Reality ruffling your unstyled hair follicles on the mountaintop while the dull noise of society’s relentlessly casual physical, mental, and spiritual violence gnaws the soles of your soul.
Listen. Stop. Breathe. Stop. Dare. Stop. Die. Stop. Eat your infantile politics of experience. Stop. The Zen Master’s stick is my vitamin-enriched carrot. Stop. Having great fun, wish you were real. Stop. Unplug from the matrix. Stop. Herd the corporate suits onto the reservation of capitalist schizophrenics. Stop.
I’m in your head now, and I won’t stop eating your brain until everything untrue is consumed.
I smile deadly at all the dead people enthusiastically giving birth to more death.
Nailcakes for breakfast, emergent properties on the porch.
Stop making sense is not just an ancient concert film.
A long-time friend said I was Spinal Tap amp at 11, I say I’m zero, who cares.
Demon’s animal instinct amped. Vis-à-vis eros-amor-agape emotion. And luminescent Mind.
Jesus is the Word made flesh, but cultically vanished, and streaming in your blood archetypally. He won’t fully live till you shut up about him. The Age of the Other is ceasing.
I stand in the Clearing as the Goddess dissembles, re-assembles herself in the ever-changing rainbow spectrum, astro-patternings of what might possibly survive the whirlwind, vortex, nanoswarm of aggregate qualities.
Slipstream vis-à-vis the vortical assemblages. Nanoswarmfucks favor deep full-rotation penetration from digital scrollz. Carnal gnoziz.
Molecular machinic makeup startles in the moonlight. The silken digital rustle of “her” simulacral skin.
Patterned after mirror recognition, her lips and tongue are velvet illusion.
We extend in the slipstream of consensus time’s strange velocity. Feathery “she” is in the eye of Chronos’ hurricane.
Does her cold code translate into bliss up her artificially enhanced spine with this current life-like yab-yum swoon?
Fucking leaves of codeflesh I hang fierce suspended over the abyss. O wait. I AM the abyss. And all that jizz jazz.
This model’s molecular chip layers on the gaunt zombie standing remains of a once great cellist.
Taking her ass is a butterfly symphony of great nuance and honey rich feeling. Her residual cellist’s melancholy infuses her shuddering algorithmic sighs with heart-piercing irreality.
“You’re cheating,” she whispers huskily, as I squeeze her throat, stark beneath the hive.
The nanoswarm layers are programmed quiescent, or they’d be down my throat like a black fly storm, and my vectors appropriated by client control.
A lost Aquarius, she’d licensed her libido under heavy gambling debts, chiefly picking the wrong iguana at smoky midnite back-alley fight scenes.
My desire for hybridized ass is primal proof of yielding. Formal polarity of yin-yang freedom. Jouissance. Perverse foundation of daimonic power. Your crystal tears of worship move me, even if you are merely delirious with joy for your lost complementary opposite.
“But I love this monstrous moment,” she adds, Asphyxia of anal orgasmic delirium. Host and techno-parasite of one voice.
All very gentle and profound, no crushing of larynx, no tearing of sphincter.
We are not savages, though perhaps we are sardonically sublime.
The part of her psyche licensed to nanotech overlays with a human cellist’s implosion, whilst assaying Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” without first being anointed by The Chronos Quartet. She bowed her 19th nervous breakdown.
The black hole loves her enigma. Artifice embraced with a strange joy.
“What’s love?” I query, buried deep in her dark yielding moan.
“Death of enquiry,” she rasps, my silken Asphyxia, as this fine scarf encircles her throat.
There’s always the slight risk of nano-infection, should molecular machinic programming safeguards fail, in which case, one’s will is subsumed in the hive mind. What is its nature?
But I’ve slipstreamed, time-stretched five centennials, and everything blurs at the edges. Nectar or venom for the hive mind. My language inoculates against appropriation, in other than a dead heat of melding momentary vectors.
The blue noir madness of her cumquakes calms me. After blasting the jizz back into the snug sphincter black hole of gnoziz, I kiss her low-humming ass and we hold hands in the dark, pondering the quiet death and resurrection of romance. Later we discuss parasitic upgrades.
“Parasitism and symbiosis are the true basis for evolutionary change,” she murmurs, echoing a Crichton novel.
“Deleuze & Guattari trace the movements of liberating desire, breaking the bonds of Oedipal-capitalist reality-jacking. Vectors of molecular machinic desire. Buddhism invites the original psychological deconstruction of illusory self into evanescent aggregates. Habitual patterns to be re-evaluated unto a priori transcendence. Now our bodies are invaded by molecular machines, nanobots, in the perfect white hot battleground of meaning for history’s stark figures. Politics of nano-hybridization: parasite/symbiosis definitions. O please not a Pinochhio Bosh brainfuck.”
Her smile is a burnished warmth from deeply ingrained cello discipline.
“And we’re already nanobotic human constructs before we even began our molenotechnology,” my darling courtesan alien muses. “’Ribosome is the biological name of the atomic robots that exist in the cells of all living things to manufacture proteins,’” she adds, quoting Lin Sten.
My backdoor kink is a fundament-al kosmos of root chakra deep yum. Next time we’ll eat yams with our sphincter-ring ceremony of power.
Girl, you really got me now, you got me so I can’t sleep at night. . .you really got me.
“The nanobots enhance the pleasure of my submission,” she murmurs.
Of course, I know the paradoxes of identity, but there remains the issue of client control. Planet Xenon guarantees responsible anarchy in policy matters. Perhaps Asphyxia has bargained no worse than any other provisional person. If the hive-mind’s more Borgesian than Borg, labyrinthine liberation from representational tyranny ensues.
Just a whore, you say? But she only rents her ass to a select clientele, those of algorithmic pulp astro-synastric excellence.
“You ever consider covering, um, “The Wind Cries Mary” — that Hendrix ballad that Clapton and Sting recorded separately, in different mini-eras?” I’m thinking of her “Purple Haze” meltdown.
“If you cum in my throat, I’ll turn into a cello,” she answers, meeting my eyes like a tractor beam.
The molecular robots are amping her aggregate wantonness.
“How do these precision atomic fuckers amp your heart?” I muse aloud.
Riverine tears wrack her hybrid state.
Upon her terror-joy I build my church. I shall hold her close to my radiant heart against all odds in the slipstreaming, reality-wrenching moment to moment to moment.
