1. The poem operates upon the secret logic of the world
Forced back to drawing boards, the impoverishment complex of Dadaist disgust. Alienism “works” on the premise that complexity is isomorphic to the void. Down a one-way street, accelerated in reverse. Larval pornographies on LSD. Necro-optimization. Crypto-singularity. The polysemy of circulation isn’t merely a concept: Even if sense is indifferent to it, the phantom collective subject shouts Sieg Heil! They built this city with instrumental nihilism. But that’s not why the lights rage in their eyes. Like the flames of Police-state crematoria. Like collapse vectors haloed by rancid ejecta. Even if this ignis fatuus calls itself History. No terror is unspeakable. Unseen doesn’t mean invisible. The witnesses all stood around with cameras raised in menace. Civilization was just their name for the self-destruct button. The children sing Eat the Police till they’re hoarse & its time to suck the Big Lozenge again. All have known the dead hand of cruel masturbations. Only the escaped slave knows how to assassinate the Master.
2. Poetics is a “process” without a State
In anguish it most keenly recognizes itself, risking destruction rather than surrender. These real-world exploits still behave too stupidly to be called nature. Ultimately the ego is more haunting than any of them. Consider the following: The vulnerability of every structure with a specific centre. Versus: The tactical decision to populate the Cartesian theatre with insects. The “social” is only an expanded battlespace, predestined to contingency. Cyberflesh, characterized by the rhythmic back&forth flow of protoplasm. Swarm agents of eschatology, down the TV hole like Alice. From: cardiac arrest. To: circadian clock, neural cell cycle, black-star collapse. Like History when it switches to a ﬁrst-person monologue. Whereas economics addresses the exchange or flow of terms, the sacred is when terms become inexchangeable. Are these the “hidden variables” of the eternal World Order? Conspiracy theory was contemporary genre fiction before its time. Designed either to remove thought or carve out an “escape hatch.” Their critique centred around robots that blow themselves up. Hurrah for these Pyrrhic campaigns of relentless ingrowth! A similar model can be shown to solve the Steiner tree problem. The pleasure of being lost in a maze. The eroticism of teargas canisters. Don’t worry, no-one will make you dance.
3. It is the business of poetry to be everywhere
Simultaneously order & disorder. The territory is only what can be owned. In an uncertain terrain, the circulation of capital has never been anything but abstraction-in-process. Further “advances” from roots to forms – tones & approaches – lung plastic & ambient blankness. FUCK THE CAESARS! In art as in life significance tends to parody. To re-formulate: Life must be boring before it can be lived. Or: The futility of art against the existence of almost anything. The world with a migraine in its mouth. Dronologies of the mind’s eye. Backwashed with rancid haemoglobins, bleach of spleen, as white as the heart of Amerikan darkness. Swamp or alluvium. Born of concrete, the monopoly on human residue. Oh how the salvages make our night-club skeletons laugh! Revolution answers a contrary need. We’ve always had chains, inshallah. Smashing their sweet music with homicidal abandon. At the end of the second decade of the twenty-first century, your heroes all turned out to be informers. Some knew this, their prison odes grist to data-spill in solitary confinement. Libraries & crematoria. Things that conform in appearance only, like ashes & excrement. Words born black.
4. The poem is a theory of suppressed force
Shadows of substance, clandestine hatreds, the tormented gearing of mind-wave eschatologies. History didn’t get here by keeping its hands clean. Acid bath, arms & legs in wheelbarrows. Its ever-enlarging shadow keeps the sun out of yr eyes. Waiting for the vultures, too exhausted to speak: not flail at walls & riot shields. Sucking on bits of chewed vocabulary. Eyeball spit. Fungicide. How is it even possible for life to exist at street temperature? All yr confusion is just a mimesis of yr latest fix. Lancing the boils, the suppurating word-pile. The anus is a universal vehicle for inﬁltrations. WEAPONISE EVERYTHING! Making love to yr shot-out eye. Snapshots of the terrors of childhood – dreaming out-loud in shrill horrors of abandonment. There are too many maniacs in the world, playing with matches while you build yr own pyre. There’s always room for another scapegoat to the cause. Mon pauvre révisionniste! Tonguing the seared roof of the Dearly Departed’s mouth, one last time. To make palpable this tension between the homogenizing forces of exchange & the heterogeneity of the same. Because language is the most important aspect of death, they taught themselves to amputate in silence.
5. Poetry or abolition
Literature always desires the coming of something alien, to do its work for it: the onerous task of apocalypse with the prestige of sense stripped away. Madam X plies her whip. Look, comrades, the revolution is an interminable labour. Avant-larpers in rubber face-gear under Rosa Luxemburg’s beard. Molotovs at the cocktail bar. Just another “death in custody.” Lock-step down the screen, the little ants avid for Eternal Return at the first cash-machine. The pure machine of the pure subject. Language, too, must put itself in play, like the hallucinated futures of a lunatic. (What good’s a TV no-one’s watching?) It’s time to stop launching the fireworks at their feet & go straight for the head. Not the limit but the movement of displacement of limits. The only real question is when will you realise this is all-out-war? Initiate terminator code sequence. Epi-teleologies of time-collapse (time has already collapsed, now, again). Simply to breathe entails unlocalisable fractures. On the other hand, violence had always been a glib magic trick with the lights knocked out, it was time it got a refurbishment. All those who’ve ever been obsessed with the idea of disappearing. Realism is just co-option by another name, the decrypt read. The dream kicks you in the head. What refuses to rhyme with XYZ? Walt Whitman didn’t kill Che Guevara.