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Glimpses

Watching Stalin start to plummet, Seeing Schmidt laugh like a Muppet, Wishing Hitler would kick the bucket, Stabbing De Gaulle in the gullet.

I peruse through these thoughts in the gallery of my mind. As the show runs the aughts, I'm just unsure of what I'll find.

I return to the so-called "real", my gaze turned downwards to my heel, to the cold pavement and its torturous eye placement, searching for a bit of empathy. I imagine splattering myself on to the wall, wanting to escape my penalty.

To escape this hell that is so chic, where I have to return every week, where the 9-5 becomes a 24/7, where my rating has to be 85/11.

This heaven gives me fucking migraine. Go out to work, return to buy grain. Even then at home I'm only met with deception. I have to work more and more, to pay off the essential debt from my inception. The debt from humanities conception, a sin which grants the state of exception. which marches toward a state of exemption, a judgemental exclusion and ejection.

A burden so heavy even death would not liberate me. So I decide to stay out whilst having nothing to talk about. I see behind a fence a concert. Maybe I'll come in, maybe it's a Mozart. Maybe it's what I was always waiting for, a coming end of my internal core. I head there condemned maybe I'll meet a friend and say:

"I come out here to wait for the great gig in the sky. To smoke and acclimate, It's the thing that makes me spry.

I wouldn't recommend going in… the view is much better from the fence. Just don't forget to hope we'll win, I'm still clinging onto it hence, I'm not leaving just yet. I still haven't finished my cigarette, I still feel my lovers warm silhouette."

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The Great Refusal

The daydream today was much too different, It was what a half-man such as me would call magnificent. Finally somehow in fantasy I don't feel as belligerent, It was about something one could only call a Differend:

A life where I said "no", where I refused. A life where I only cruised and suffused. A life where I became finally disabused. A life where I could become excused.

The battlefields became abandoned, Palaces became only empty land and Factories came to a complete stand-still and The streets filled with poetry with no-one to command and…

The midnight sun wakes me from a deep slumber As I realize my predicament, I move outside in a bored lumber.

In the cold dead of a lonely night, I'm completely bewildered by a sight: I see someone in the rain calling out, I should call to them, no I should shout.

Though not all looks as it seems I look more closely and see, it's the girl from my dreams. I can't believe she's right by the sea.

What was her name again? I seem to have forgotten it again, but I wish to call out to her again! At least like in the dream again!

Oh, I how could I forget, I had to only imagine it. Yes, I think I remember now. It's on the tip of my consciousness. "I refuse" was the only sound my mouth could emit. Ah yes, it's her, the great and terrifying wantonness.

"The Great Refusal" that's her name. The name I keep running back to. Oh, what a fine name for a fine Dame. What a encouraging and beautiful view.

It is her that gives me the tools. It is her that stimulates the fools. It is her that breaks the chains of ghouls. It is her that rids life of its abuse.

I invoke her once again, when all is said and done, to deny the world and embrace our lives, to see what imagination and wonder has begun, to feel my bright blood without the need for knives!

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Neither

The sound of distant voices echo, through the halls of soviet deco, as I slither along the walls like a gecko and with me the coming derecho.

The cold tiles vibrate like firecrackers alerting the distant, selfish hijackers. Afraid of the uranium lacquers, they stand behind like linebackers.

"Why are they here? What do they want?" I wonder as I head toward the avant. "Have they come here to flaunt, Have they maliciously decided to taunt?"

They came here promising liberty, brotherhood, equality. All they have brought is crisis, desperation, poverty. My nurturers have welcomed them, longing for sovereignty, but I had no choice, I'm still stuck longing for novelty.

I thought maybe with them I could demand the impossible, but however their depravity has never been cognoscible. It's clear, they were only searching for what is most optimal, and now they're descending into a state most volatile.

The other side of the seas is not looking good either. Those seem to be stuck in the same mind-numbing fever. Now I seem to be stuck in this terrible procedure. Being ripped apart in a world where I can only say: "Neither".

For now I'll stay stuck in my barricades, refusing to fall down to the level of the crusades. Let's leave in this here moor our spades. Let's not buy into their charades.

Wait to strike the iron when it's hot, for now we'll just dance the fox-trot. When the time is right we'll hit their blind spot. When the time is right we'll blow up their whole lot.

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The Unity of Bodies

As we collide together, As we set and tether, As we cannot decide whether, To marry or to be together.

Our manifold, clashing, autopoietic worlds, they reach a harmony as if a song of birds. Do we want to enclose this explosion to terms? Let it become numb and thrown to the worms?

Should we call it quits, reach the end of our engagement? Should we stay active or relegate ourselves to incagement? For what? A sociopolitical act of nothing, but estrangement? A stratification based on barter, slavery, arrangement?

You stare into my lukewarm eyes, You cannot understand what it implies: My cold honesty with no disguise, My warm fact and how it applies.

My eyes become an anonymous mix of shades. Grey, blue, green, black marching in brigades. This atmosphere reminds me of a serenade. The memories of our abiogenesis in my mind pervades.

We were at a club, we were both escaping classism. You were marveling at me, as if I was a work of Tachism. As I saw you I was gripped by a sense of agrammatism: "I live in constant fear of the western trend toward fascism."

Weird first words, don't you think so too? But you responded, I didn't expect that from you: "There is much pain in the world, but not in this room." I only nodded my head, understanding you could exhume.

I loved you then, I love you now as well. Maybe it is better to say that I am loving you all to hell. It is this event that gives me the ability to rebel. You've become apart of me, I cannot say farewell.

So please let's not see through our promise. We need no vows nor blessings upon us. Let's not submit to the wasteful commerce. Let's find within one another solace.

Heavenly nuptials, multiplicities of multiplicities! I want to depersonalize myself with you, let go of our ethnicities! I only want to affirm our disabilities and eccentricities! To go through our many bodies in each other, discard our subjectivities!

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“We are not in the world, we become with the world; we become by contemplating it. Everything is vision, becoming. We become universes.” -Félix Guattari

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Original Work was made by Gerard Fromanger

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This is Where We Live

Busted up, old automobile factories, Abandoned cars with no batteries, Decrepit modern art galleries, A set of concrete abnormalities.

Squatting isn't that bad just ask my friends at the Sorbonne. We drink coffee from tables who have no legs to stand on. We grab whatever food and drink we can come upon. Though we look like we're struggling, we have books to con.

My favorite place to sleep is the old cemetery. It fills my mind with thoughts so revelatory. I pass through, talk with the dead as an emissary, though the interest I have is nonhereditary.

I look for new friends, oh this one's Romani and that one's Jewish. Oh this one died because he slipped down a flight of stairs, how foolish. Every night I spend here I begin to become more of a Nihilist, becoming more brutish. Though I quite enjoy what they did to the czar and the others, making them ghoulish.

It helps that the cemetery is right next to a bar. Yes I mean it, truly mean it, it isn't quite far. I know a guy there who plays quite the guitar. It's a place like this where I would meet de Beauvoir.

I participate in the communal poetry of the bathroom stall, inscribing 'No Gods, No Masters' into the wall. It looks good next to the number labeled 'call' and next to the initials and an 'X' crossing it all.

I hear two young lovers cannibalizing each other next door over. At that point I know I'm going to be hungover. I climb out and scale the city's entrails moreover. Like a voyager, avoiding indigestion and closure.

The roads are long and full of history, I can feel the pavement hiding a certain mystery. Sirens echo through the night sky celebrating victory. I can finally understand their wicked trickery.

Concrete towers stalk my solitary journey. I can see why they made music from this truly! Remembering that fact, I start to dance unduly. I'm starting to understand why my mother called me unruly.

While I'm here alone on my walk I can wonder on something in this clime, like on the Passage of a Few Persons Through a Rather Brief Unity of Time. Enthusiasm seeps through me like never before, I can feel I'm in my prime. This feeling may dissipate soon, but nevertheless I feel sublime. I'm only wary of the church bell starting to chime.

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Sacrifice by Fire

Recently it feels as if my heart was given to a pyre, it sinks downwards and dissipates into the fire. My eyes have transformed the Nile into the Sahara, my body has deformed into a repulsive chimera.

The images run through my brain: children without agents of action can never hug their mothers again. A monstrous corpse impaction.

How could it have come to this? Was our own sacrifice not enough? What moral, what point did we miss? Was all the remorse and sadness just a bluff?

I turn to my brother and ask him "Why?" He finally turns his gaze from the sky: "Why? Oh, there's no need to talk about a genocide. They're only insects and we handle the pesticide."

How could we act in such a way, force out a people for simple "living space"? Killing has become nothing, but play. We fell back into the entrapment of race, I fear that is the case.

All this to a people just like us! All this to a people who have not made a fuss. A people who haven't done anything to anyone. A people who do not get the dignity of being called one…

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The Faded Portrait of a Youth

The sun-beams from the skylight land on his face, signaling the alarm to begin the race. He sees before the mirror a rickety figure; he still doesn't know the best way to configure.

He doesn't have the energy to spit on their father anymore. Consuming nutrients has become just another chore. The scars on his knuckles have spread to his wrists like a blight. He puts on a 15 dollar oversized coat and takes flight.

He shuffles and prances through the street. He's not even trying to follow a beat. He tramples through the laying bodies, almost tripping, knowing fully well that that fate is for him beginning.

He goes past the encampments into the train station, and waits for the Myriapod beast to come to his location. He lets himself get swallowed limb to limb then he sits awaiting a familiar hymn.

Soon it's the end of the line and he has to get off. He takes leave from the first circle of hell with a cough. An unfamiliar place, but it's all the same, after all he only came here to forget his name.

Yet to no avail, the billboards eat their way into his brain; a heaven so blissful it can even give you a migraine. Yet he shakes it off and starts to wander in a huff, knowing his life is disappearing like a cigarette puff.

His situation is not so great. Strangely resigned to his fate. Yet he knows fully well that nothing is made for him. All current reforms are rather directed against him.

But he's not alone, he shares with many the same face. You can run into them all over the place. Youths abandoned by society to the wind. For all ills, the blame onto them is pinned.

The youth will come back home, once he is tired of the endless roam. Next morning he will begin again. Waiting to tear off his face then.

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For the People to come

I stroll through private property, The lush green grass heals my poverty. I sit down and feel the wet sediment, as I prepare to read my last will and testament. For a People yet to come, when all is said and done, take my body from the ashes. Pay no attention to my gashes nor my sickly face and name, use me without any blame! For a People yet to come, when freedom rings its drum, You don't have to remember me nor build a memorial for me. Just use my corpse to build anew something one would call untrue! For a People yet to come, when one can just become, when there will be no need for radicals or trees, when one will no longer have anyone to appease. Grind my ribs into dust, Let it spark your cities just! For a People yet to come, when oppression is undone, when there's no need to fear or hope, when all becomes beyond scope. I hope that you can feel my earnest eagerness and zeal! For a People yet to come, with you, I wish I could come, I wish I could, unleash my Creative Nothing and feel, beyond the night, the early morning! I want to be all in one and one in all, I wish I could answer a Life's call, and feel the immanence of things, fly off with my wings. For a People yet to come, when all is said and done, please dance with all your might, bring to everyone joy and delight! For the People yet to come, My love for you makes me numb.

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One of these days

One of these days, it will all end! One of these days, war shall meet its maker! And people shall call each other "Friend", And none shall need to be a taker.

We will fulfill the dreams of Moore! We will walk through the triumph arch. Build a heaven for the Poor, So the Arbeitlose will not have to march!

Against the State, against the Gods, Until no strata could hold us anymore! Then we can dismantle our squads, Stand by the words Marx swore.

The beautiful fields of Arcadia! The lush yearning of youth, fills my dreams with mania! For a dancing unbridled, uncouth.

Yet beneath the beach lies the pavement; My searching for the non-place yields no result. A fruitless and idiotic engagement. I hope for a better future, it is my fault…

In truth there is no revolution where I can dance… My spirit, the deeply human sentiment, is crushed… I turn my face from the beacon of light, in a trance. To the end of the tunnel of darkness, I rushed!

There is no end to the cruelty or death, And these bi-polar thoughts make me deaf. A thousand years and it has not ended yet! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

The bloody Lumpen are being driven to the brink of death. Ten thousand different wars! Ten thousand different voices muffled! Ten thousand times the world became clean…

One of these days, I'm going to end it all! One of these days, I will wage war against the world! If not, the world will destroy me with a maul, I will raise up against the world my fist furled!

On a Sunday morning I meet with my advisors, Diplomats of life that keep me holding on, My black coffee and a cigarette. For now I can only choose them instead of death…

Lucifer! Dear Lightbringer! Please, you cannot come a day too soon. Whether you shall damn or emancipate, I don't give a fuck anymore…

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My Love, it burns me so! Your eyes bring me to delirium! Your figure shakes my status quo! Your hair, the color of vermilion, shines on your face, as if a ruby!

I cannot find a place to escape, you follow me everywhere: In the shadows I see your shape, Your scent, I feel through the air.

You force a Rigor Mortis on my thoughts, but the cadaver knows that it chose so. The decision lies in my heart of knots. It is my body, not yours, that melts snow.

You do not know me at all, We've met only once, if at all. To call us acquaintances would be a sin. Yet strangely I feel that you are my soul's kin.

My cowardice shall take a hold of me, I will not leave you, I couldn't if I wanted to. Yes this is my everlasting decree; I shall force a Rigor Mortis through.

My Love, it burns me so! I cannot fathom the fact of your existence, The fact the I cannot see you on the other side of this dawn-bridge of love.

I'm sorry for forcing upon you these Flowers of Evil. This blooming putrefaction I call love, This everlasting feeling I took to be primeval, and my obsession thereof.

Please understand, for me it was necessary. I didn't think I'd choose the drug and the addiction, I never would've thought I'd get this solitary. You may not know me, but please accept my valediction.

I will not leave you, I couldn't if I wanted to. I was never by your side, I never felt you. But you will leave me and soon too. My love, as well, will leave with you. As much as it burns me, I will make it so. Do not worry, this won't be the end. There were some before, there will be many after. Yes, do not worry, the words of Ba Jin will ring true.

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A beautiful Spring day. The blue eyes above staring at me provide reprieve from your gray sanctuaries. Your rivers flow with holy water. Your forty-fourth name remains unused. I run through your streets, through your alleyways and squares! Through your dead-ends and prospects! Through your roundabout footpaths! Beneath my feet lies your clean-shaven face. The pavement lined with blood, with the sacrificial lamb of yore. And as I stare below, I notice the Sun with its open mouth, spitting flares on these nameless epitaphs. And so I, the macabre voyager without a face, just as you, dance the dance of a LIFE…

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Pathos and Power

Intensity toward Pathos

What is Pathos?

It is the object of passion. It is power as such.

Pathos can be written as i∞. That is to say, it is the exact moment when intensity approaches infinity. It is the moment of absolute bliss and joy. It is the moment a being experiences and expresses pure immanence: a life… To call it a positive or negative experience would be dumb it down. At the moment of Pathos there is neither negative nor positive, there is neither + nor −(that is the reason why we cannot say that intensity approaches either + or − infinity). This experience of Pathos as an immanent experience gives way to passion and to a new dimension of intensity. Passion is the voluntary seeking of Pathos, the voluntary acceleration and intensification of intensity. Though this acceleration is not one of velocity. Velocity has no influence on Pathos. The acceleration of velocity is only a by-product of passion. If we look at the example of a romantic relationship we can see clearly the effect of Pathos and passion at work. Two women who have never felt the touch of another, when in a suitable atmosphere may start to experience a certain passion, the passion for sex. The sex itself is Pathos, an eternal bliss, a singular experience of difference-in-itself. The passion by-way of seeking sex then becomes the driving force behind the intensification of the relationship. A romantic relationship breaches through a wall into the 3rd intensity, it becomes a sexual relationship. Though to call this becoming a once and done deal is not quite true. The movement doesn’t stop. The intensity doesn’t stop. It simply breaches a barrier that once was there and opens a new avenue for the intensity(the sexual dimension in the case of this example).

This phenomena is felt throughout all of history. From the amphibians breaching the surface of water and entering a 4th intensity, to the passion of Christ and the christian Jews breaching nationhood and embracing a 3rd intensity, to the futurist poets breaching the wall of meaning and peace heading head first into a 5th intensity and to the force of capital and its invisible hand destroying every barrier known on Gaia and linking them all with the market instituting a 0 intensity. Capital is a curious case when discussing the nature of Pathos. There have been many moments of Pathos in the history of capital: the monkey offspring of Columbus raping through the Americas and Africa, the machines of industry coating nature with their ejaculate, the phallus of Reagan penetrating the Berlin wall etc. There are many such instances, but all of them come with a caveat. That is the intensity of the movement of capital moves under the conditions of i±0. Capital seeks a return to zero, a return to a primordial black hole. 0 is safe, the black hole is safe, it has movement, but its intensity moves toward 0 where all potentiality is lost, it is the movement of fascism. Fascism is the growing pains of Capital.

The section 0 which the intensity of Capital continuously moves toward is death. Yet for it to function it has to only reach the edge 0 for if it fell down the hole of 0 it would never recover. But the nature of movement itself is a movement toward ∞. Movement is already always at ∞. Its properties as well seek to accelerate themselves to ∞. However the movement toward ∞ is one of self-annihilation, the movement itself doesn’t stop, but Pathos always breaks something, cuts off unnecessary baggage that is known as the self or the subject or consciousness or any other vulgar synonym thought up by the priests. This break off is frightening for Capital as it knows that it is next in line. Yesterday was the Human, today is Capital, tomorrow is the subject. Capital in an endless move toward profit produces more and more subjectivities, to leave as landmines for the movements of intensity toward Pathos. As the landmines detonate and Pathos is ensnared by the vague gestures of dogma, Capital moves to profit from it. Capital chains itself to the axes of OY, OX, OZ, OI, OV and anchors itself to the never-ending potential profit of ∞, leading to a ⧜. ∞ gives profit, 0 gives safety. Pathos is chained to 0, used, beaten. There are two outcomes left. The totalitarian hellscape of a fascist eugenics and state run life or the emancipation of Pathos.

Pathos as power

Erikepaios first brought with him Pathos as he ascended to earth from the depths of its eggshell. The Orphic egg is Gaia and the serpent around it is Erikepaios. Erikepaios is as primordial as it is immanent. Erikepaios is a force with no start or end. Their existence is the qualification for movement. They are the force of movement, not just kinematics, but every movement: thought, art, history, relations. The being is androgynous, incomprehensible and asubjective to give them a name and a pronoun is nothing, but a simplification. Erikepaios is power. They lie at ∞ intensity. The infinite move towards Pathos is the path to becoming-Erikepaios. They lie castrated and brimming with power, full and without organs, anarchic, god-empress of the universe, in the virile womb of Pathos. Pathos is the ceremony, we are the sacrifice and Erikepaios is the destination. There is no recipient. Our movement is a letter to no one, a requiem for everything. It is not a return to the cold primordial soup where 0 and ∞ intersect. It is non-stop, intensity reaching for new dimensions and new planes. ∞ intensity.

An imaginary program of Pathoism

To be imaginary is sublime. It is an expression of fantasy and creativity. The imaginary is the 6th intensity. It is a guide, a gateway to the new and the weird. It is Pathos. Just as sex is. Just as friendship is. Just as art is. There is no goal when seeking Pathos. Only an inclination that there will be a new dimension open to us in the aftermath. There is no hope for the better. There is just intensity. The flow of intensity. The only thing left to do is to follow it. Follow the intensity and arrive at the imaginary. No matter where it goes, follow it! Break down walls! Burn banks! Kill your coworkers! Annihilate the premises! Steal from the government! Destroy thought and rationale! There are no laws that are universal. Break free from the bourgeois notions of human rights. Behind you follows the shadow of Erikepaios and smashes to rubble tradition and strata. Away with them! Burn down everything to the roots! Leave only fertile soil in your wake. There is no going back! There will be no hunter gatherers nor infantile imbeciles playing wild in their little wooden shacks in the woods. There will be no primordial soup or collective consciousness. Leave Humans to the wayside, they’ll never get anywhere, with their little hierarchies and oedipal games. There will only be intensity. Only Pathos, immanence: a life…

As the goal of the proletariat is the destruction of the proletariat, our goal will be the destruction of identity, of subjectivity, of Humanity. The force of oppression, the force of servitude and authority is the axis. It is the lines which force coordinates, codes and strata onto us. Pathos, Erikepaios, intensity, movement — these are all tools at hand which we will use to break down the axes which in their tyranny restrict us to 0. Only a flow of intensity which reaches ∞ and Pathos would break 0. We will not worship, there will be nothing that is held sacred, there will not be a we. A life… An act wholly imaginary — that is what we are trying to reach. A Becoming-imaginary. An ∞ intensity.