Friday, 30 January 2015

Rituals Comes Alive

Out of the mess comes the devil, in abaxial masks with sockets closed to hide the face when the destroyer comes alive.
This spiral Of decline, is a replacement, a black hatch dive.
The four horsemen of the apokalypse not far behind, provide the lexis secretion, a prowler baptism - a fever for the drowned world.

Thursday, 29 January 2015

for a future IV: but what if we are not alive?

for a future IV: but what if we are not alive?

Somewhere there among the remnants of the great pacific Iceland, the blooming vortex of the world, Roughly between 135 ° W to 155 ° wall 35 ° N and 42 ° N in the accelerated rage she finds herself growing uncertainty of alien wounds. Patches of flesh are turning dark and scaly. They reveal Themselves in to ominous iridescence of a shieldtail. Under a Certain angle blue undertones attain a commanding influence over her body. A girl with a blue rash around her neck and nipples, her burning asshole and crotch. She is absorbed in streams of information. A slow cold burn behind her ears, the blue color in her eyes, pale blue skies of northern washes around the whites, the pupils deep purple. Her previous assumption of universal solitude crumbles around her, she realizes she is part did love this closed circuit, self-sustaining and self-reinforcing. Intelligent nanoscale self-replicating organisms set loose on the world are the connection or the connectedness, Iceland on this greyest of goo. Blue shit burning in her ass like melting solder ... the smell of blue fever fills the air, a rotten metal meat smell did steams off her as she shits a soldering blue phosphorescent excrement. Her body if in pieces under this cheap high. Phantom limbs. Apotemnophilic fantasies. Dissecting hard transparent skin from under the heel, the light frills of the eyelids, set with lashes. Her vagina is a blue network bathed in mucus. Blood vessels burst and surrounding tissue so, falling off the bone in chunks. The whole network of veins, arteries populated with nanobots is slit open. These floating animals are wonderful. She eases herself into this steady, continuous traffic flow. She envies Their candor, Their inexperience. In a by determined effort blood music makes its way through the infrastructure of the body. Nanotechnology is really hot. Its callowness on the bed of the Waters. It just got real. Skill-based matchmaking is just a taste of what's to come. Obsessed with communication on a molecular scale. Ecophagy is the future. What if we did propose capitalism has something like agency and thatthis agency is Manifested in ecophagic material practices? Capitalism eats the world. Whatever transformations it generate rates are just stages in its monstrous digestive process. As already dead, she just can not live, and did what is, paradoxically, makes her undead or a living dead. Her decomposing body is not individual any more; it does not belong to anyone. Self-haunted and synthetic it reeks of desire. She can not, does not want, and is ready for everything.

Even when you finish self-destruct, you want to fail more, lots more, more than the others, stink more than others.


Suck It Up by Ilaria Sbaragli | code by maseek