Exploding into the rubber barrier of dead self by reading into the sex of transportation; car engines and bike pedals; touching open a void. Lather my experience into your religion, I'll cure the majesty.



stop.



Ages ago I created a menangerie; now it stares at me, unimpressed and with a certain degree of loathing:

Beneath the mattress are cramped cages housing warm fur and scampering legs, things that fuck and breed en masse with beady eyes holding out for love and space. Taxed, abiding by an instinct to hunt, the best I can do is collect, constrained by the Slow Mad Industry of a Malignant AnarchoDreamScape.



stop.



So i asked for the medication; it was a challenge. In a twist of fate I was asked to bless the most restless of seating over months of smoking cigarettes, poring over maps of the most useless escape routes, Rude Goldberg's contemplations of a Rorschach test, or maybe vomit.



stop.



How to play the game of questions frozen on lips,

cold symbol shattered from their own frozen fortitude,

negate the magnitude

(in a manner of speaking)

And still-- in this regime of once again and nothing new

where is the body?

We are quiet resolve masking slow panic and



stop.



Bring us back to earth with some fleeting instant of flash photography.

head in fishbowl, all sound transpires in muted colors

--and i am left here:

transcribing spirals; catseye; looking glass

as all the blood-bubbles from the edges of the world

(in the post-shock, life after cardiac arrest)

becoming hardened marbles

to be swallowed as sacrament



stop.



Feed us to the wind:

we will plant radios in old soil and

elevate that rhetoric

to the dusted pedestals of pedagogues and dead gods

if only to watch them fall

(that is)

the crayon scratches on the wall

the counterpoint, confusion of the yes and the y'all



stop.



Whim and worlds collide

to empty us

of that intangible suspect

the disease: eCoNomY

and autonomy earned means the death of the self-spurned,

Self-Saboteur,



so?



love looks good on me:

an ornamental headdress,

picked apart from the same wingtips

that brought me too close to the sun,

dressed in feathers from the flight

(and consequent fall)

weathered by the weight of it all.

the new subculture is one of nuerotic anti self reference.



we can only produce identity through pepetual and cyclical critique of the our sociocultural and political structures. can only exist through self-conscious negation and spoken un-alliance and awareness.



the new subculture is a eunoch. anger boils beneath but we can't blow our load on any new horizon. so we seek to make impotence cool, obviously, its all chill man.



the new hipster is the bastard child of a post-mortem irony, the new hipster is tired and digging in the dust, the new hipster DEFAULTS. defaults to the last bastions of community that might keep him safe from having to defend the claim to id, ego from critique. the new hipster is being, and is too tired, made to stupid from talking in circles, to yearn for production.



the new hipster isn't lazy, he's fucking TIRED and he can't GET OFF. he's soft, and when he's not destroying identity in order to legitimize the building of one, he's spreading the overcast to let it grow without any autonomous action that might be surveilled. he lets identity come from collective conscious, from the community that echoes ideals and yes please thank you, breathe.



he doesn't detest a stereotype because its not worth it. he's in flux, and only legitimizes his peers, who are the only ones who authenticate him.



the new hipster kind of annoys the shit out of me...case in point, identity exemplified....i am obviously one of 'em.

crouched, hunter

pushed worlds down my throat with quick inhalation and gulp, held them there compressed and frenzied

the prey being watched from above

was stalking back from below



lines intersecting spheres; moments showing years in the corners of their eyes.

where did this start? with a soldier's story, theory tickling future. with release.

with mouth and tongue and teeth and throat machine.



animals and weaponry; slackjawed moonbitch.



big game hunting. a murder of crows the orgasm of artemis,

on the wing, fight and/or flight, fight the flight, flee the fight, tomorrow's last night.



the no. the stop, the go, the blow. human naked facing the blow. i am not me she is the pack, the flow.

self-fulfilled whore virgin crow.

facing the know--soft inhalations of artemis vulgari. purple mapping the soft green. grazing leaves dew drops (spherical) on lips.

a heart; organ stolen from machine system, bent cog gnawed upon and dusted. still beating, veins leaking drool. all meloncholy is fluid.



now a body without organs.

now speaking of owls.



now watching two fall from a tree (satellite icarus) scream and fight in circles, leaving in dark lines across the sky.



the depth gnosis.

am.