myrandompolitics

[myrandompolitics]

The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On

(Franny Choi)

Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse of boats: boats of prisoners, boats cracking under sky-iron, boats making corpses bloom like algae on the shore. Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse of the bombed mosque. There was the apocalypse of the taxi driver warped by flame. There was the apocalypse of the leaving, and the having left— of my mother unsticking herself from her mother’s grave as the plane barreled down the runway. Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse of planes. There was the apocalypse of pipelines legislating their way through sacred water, and the apocalypse of the dogs. Before which was the apocalypse of the dogs and the hoses. Before which, the apocalypse of dogs and slave catchers whose faces glowed by lantern-light. Before the apocalypse, the apocalypse of bees. The apocalypse of  buses. Border fence apocalypse. Coat hanger apocalypse. Apocalypse in the textbooks’ selective silences. There was the apocalypse of the settlement and the soda machine; the apocalypse of the settlement and the jars of scalps; there was the bedlam of the cannery; the radioactive rain; the chairless martyr demanding a name. I was born from an apocalypse and have come to tell you what I know—which is that the apocalypse began when Columbus praised God and lowered his anchor. It began when a continent was drawn into cutlets. It began when Kublai Khan told Marco, Begin at the beginning. By the time the apocalypse began, the world had already ended. It ended every day for a century or two. It ended, and another ending world spun in its place. It ended, and we woke up and ordered Greek coffees, drew the hot liquid through our teeth, as everywhere, the apocalypse rumbled, the apocalypse remembered, our dear, beloved apocalypse—it drifted slowly from the trees all around us, so loud we stopped hearing it.

[myrandompolitics]

[myrandompolitics]

[myrandompolitics]

JESUS TAKES A SMOKE BREAK AT THE LAST SUPPER, by @iloveyouandyoudontpayme (Me) inspired by a post by @vajktvoje

[Image ID:

JESUS TAKES A SMOKE BREAK AT THE LAST SUPPER

They ask me if the chicken or the egg came first, and I

Ask them if the lamb needs more salt. They nod.

I resent speaking in riddles. It's not like I know the answer anyway.

People often forget that I am not a god.

I take a minute to think about it. I think about how chickens look the same. I wonder what my father

Looks like.

Well, first there were snakes. And then they were chickens. I think about a snake eating our chickens when

I was 5. What came first, the snake

Or its half eaten tail?

This cigarette might be the best I've ever had.

I ask if the wine is alright, and their ruddy faces answer yes

And hands cover mine as we toast.

Would a chicken eat a snake?

The weather is not so good today. The dogs

Bark a street away. Wine and snakes and fathers and chickens

And eggs. Who nurtured the egg? Who fed the chicken?

These are far more important questions.

Who birthed himself? Who bled the grapes?

Who ate his tail?

What came first, the lamb or the warm hands or this damn fine cigarette?

I flick the remains of it into an ashtray.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Snake to chicken to egg.

Father to son.

/end ID]

[myrandompolitics]

Man, the flesh sucks. I'm gonna abandon it for the machine.

[myrandompolitics]

I got to hold a 500,000 year old hand axe at the museum today.

It's right-handed

I am right-handed

There are grooves for the thumb and knuckle to grip that fit my hand perfectly

I have calluses there from holding my stylus and pencils and the gardening tools.

There are sharper and blunter parts of the edge, for different types of cutting, as well as a point for piercing.

I know exactly how to use this to butcher a carcass.

A homo erectus made it

Some ancestor of mine, three species ago, made a tool that fits my hand perfectly, and that I still know how to use.

Who were you

A man? A woman? Did you even use those words?

Did you craft alone or were you with friends? Did you sing while you worked?

Did you find this stone yourself, or did you trade for it? Was it a gift?

Did you make it for yourself, or someone else, or does the distinction of personal property not really apply here?

Who were you?

What would you think today, seeing your descendant hold your tool and sob because it fits her hands as well?

What about your other descendant, the docent and caretaker of your tool, holding her hands under it the way you hold your hands under your baby's head when a stranger holds them.

Is it bizarre to you, that your most utilitarian object is now revered as holy?

Or has it always been divine?

Or is the divine in how I am watching videos on how to knap stone made by your other descendants, learning by example the way you did?

Tomorrow morning I am going to the local riverbed in search of the appropriate stones, and I will follow your example.

The first blood spilled on it will almost certainly be my own, as I learn the textures and rhythm of how it's done.

Did you have cuss words back then? Gods to blaspheme when the rock slips and you almost take your thumbnail off instead? Or did you just scream?

I'm not religious.

But if spilling my own blood to connect with a stranger who shared it isn't partaking in the divine

I don't know what is.

[myrandompolitics]

Here is what they don’t tell you:

Icarus laughed as he fell. Threw his head back and yelled into the winds, arms spread wide, teeth bared to the world.

(There is a bitter triumph in crashing when you should be soaring.)

The wax scorched his skin, ran blazing trails down his back, his thighs, his ankles, his feet. Feathers floated like prayers past his fingers, close enough to snatch back. Death breathed burning kisses against his shoulders, where the wings joined the harness. The sun painted everything in shades of gold.

(There is a certain beauty in setting the world on fire and watching from the centre of the flames.)

[myrandompolitics]

[myrandompolitics]

Genocide at the Night Market//Won’t You Bet on Losing Dogs? by Patroclus Minh

[Text ID:

“Transgenderism must be eradicated from public life entirely — the whole preposterous ideology, at every level.”

Michael Knowles, Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC)

6 March 2023

Below the charcoaled pit, beside the cast-iron cages

cleaving man and animal, you take your seat

by the ring. Watch as they bind a crass

collar to a losing beast, it’s starved frame

weighed down by decades of criss-crossed scars

collapses on an evian bottle. The arena howls.

Its breath, shallow and jagged, pants. Canines gnaw

on plastic. What a stupid bitch, they laugh. Too bad

it won’t live long. Diatribes fling, every word polished 

and sharpened. The dog was polished and sharpened, its

body put on display; the scent of its own piss rises and 

declares it brute and savage, declares it lesser. 

You named it necessity, named it Greater Good. What

rabid creature need be allowed to infect your women

and children? What hell-sent defier of God do not

deserve the coin placed on their rape and torture?

The rifle fires. Bright lanterns illuminates eager

faces and it tears and tears and tears. You pass

over the money and stand. Wailing words lost 

to Soho night — time to forget your bet on losing dogs. 

/End ID]

[myrandompolitics]

Who makes the porn bots. Where do they come from. What do they hope to achieve.

[myrandompolitics]

IN A WORLD WHERE BEAUTY AND ATTRACTIVENESS HAVE BECOME SO COMMONPLACE AND MUNDANE THE EXCEPTIONAL UGLINESS HAS BECOME DIVINE

[myrandompolitics]

[myrandompolitics]

If anyone tries to use the “define woman” argument hit them with the wikipedia page for Bundle Theory.

[myrandompolitics]

“Who am I? You are Rei Ayanami. But, who are you? Are you Rei Ayanami as well? Correct, I’m the thing that is recognized as Rei Ayanami. We are all things that are recognized as Rei Ayanami. How could all of those possibly be me? It is simply because the others call us Rei Ayanami, that is the only reason. You possess a false body and a fake soul, do you know why? I am neither false nor fake, I am simply me. No, you are an empty shell with a false soul created by a man named Gendou Ikari. You are just an object that is pretending to be human. Look deep within yourself. do you perceive the almost intangible and physical presence that lurks below your waking self? inside your darkest dreams? It is there that your true identity lies. No, I am me. I became myself by the instrumentality of the links and relationships between myself and others. I am formed by interaction of others. They create me as I create them. These relationships and interactions serve to shape the patterns of my heart and mind. Those are bonds? Yes. That is the name for what I share with those who have created the thing known as rei. That is what will continue to shape me. Those are bonds. But there is someone else who is your true self. You don’t know her, but she exists. You’ve denied that fact, in an attempted to suppress that facet of your reality. Because of fear. Because she might not have human form. Because then the present self might cease to be. This is fear. This is what you fear. That you will become nothing. Or frightened that you will disappear from the minds of others if another exists. I’m afraid, why is that? Because your current self have never existed. You are scared, aren’t you? Because you will cease to be. You are scared, aren’t you? No, I’m not. I am happy because I want to die. I want despair. I want to return to nothing, but I can’t. He won’t let me return to nothingness. Not yet. I still exist because he needs me. But when everything is over, when I am of no use anymore, he will abandon me. I’ve prayed for the day he would abandon me. But now, now I fear it.”

— Neon Genesis Evangelion

[myrandompolitics]

People who switch pronouns in songs to no-homo the situation are so funny. The idea literally never even occurred to me as a kid. Couldn’t be me. I am a woman scorned. I am a man who had his heart broken. I am a guy who hates his hometown. I’m a country boy, I’m a city girl. I’m a slut. I’m addicted to cocaine. It’s a song, man.

[myrandompolitics]

A comic adaptation of Zoe Leonard’s “I want a dyke for president” (1992) 

[myrandompolitics]

I hope you guys like…eventually live the life you want to live and I hope nothing haunts you for too long and I hope you’re all kind to yourselves