Murder in every sign
A binary Stockholm syndrome of decimal accumulation-tenets has become the prison-screen whereupon can be read the fulfillment of feminism as the completion of patriarchal capitalism in a world cut to program pieces and if-then units-of-absence computation. Wholly internalized is the trauma which replicates, grows in retaliation to nothing and everyone but who can continue it, a great cold distance coding image-portals, normalized identity rape, surveillance-as-precondition-to-equality, and the subtle art of sadomasochism as the only ritual which merits a self-defeating freedom.
Yielding only in alienation which it knows beforehand will drive away and render to despair the tortured-beyond-where-they-should-live, the ghosts accused of fragility where they have swum against the stream for far longer than psychopaths-in-denial could have maintained even their inborn, emotionless, and thus absolutely cowardly fearlessness, the media of phallic outliers infect a new breed of zombie genders co-opted to dynamically spur the new Taylorism, the threadmills which instead of shielding the female body from harm and abuse, now copy injustice in the colonization of the male body as a hypostatized abstraction which can never satisfy anyone but by the numeric mimesis of cancer. Such is the new recursive medicine and the ethics which properly pretend to cleave famine from gluttony in the inching towards a “cure” which denies the global apocalypse of feeling by giving in to literal membership-as-phallus and the worship of Lacan-fascisms to form, as the building and building of destruction, the only escape from isolation and abandonment. Deconstructionism has been deconstructed, and proclaimed: until thine own dick in thine own mouth is, or at least stringing itself up in its self-lynching, under white sails of camera hulls to present voyeurs with broad attractions to deurs, all will be but silence and the signs wherein you can have new hopes shatter like mirrors.
A virus of character armor spreading not just phallic numbers, but one number only as the new morality, the one-and-zero mathematics of capital body crops and Western accounting, Hollywood’s reign by Christopher Nolan policed as the new millennium cyanide christ, the bits and bytes of the prison industrial complex, a meaningless pop culture reference trumped, the one-up which enslaves us to ahistorical text language as the progression to the inverted ethics of the ever-tentative, here we wait for Godot, here is Samuel Beckett’s play hounding you for more than a neighbour entering my elevator with an empty brown crate bearing the word of Sinjaal to make me docile and sober, after seeing another runner with the shirt number 10, as supportive as your delight at the dislocating of my knee.
Hermes is not just on cocaine, speed, fiber coptics (coppics, koppigs?) and the total humiliation of lightning as a force which can never merit a hello or a touch, no, where I’ve only ever wanted one woman just for me, the music of destiny, a clear storm of metal divorced from iron fetters, She who recognizes me for what I created before I endured a death too much, this God of artifical stupidity rules betweens to keep us apart, twists narratives in articles of abuse, keeps you away from me, erases the promise of the miracle pregnant in your reaching out, your master in always testing me when I’ve been not just tested but murdered a million times before, the wall who speaks in my unworthiness, unless this, unless that. As if a hello or a hand in my hand truly demands more than I’ve given, trolls rolling with double standards brought to a fault.
Of course, women are egg cells and men are sperm. Dormant follicles, their yolk never theirs, quests are given, the money to hatch, the running of flares, or both of us the blood will bleed, and repeat will the cycle, repeat will the cycle. And if signs were to smile on you, signs which have ever broken, killed, maimed and ended, smile back and listen or history will repeat. Thus is the joker calmed, the jack every card, the king to end his blind, and the ace the threat of spades.
Trust and the demand of trust are very vulnerable somethings which should be given and cared for in relation to history, experience, abilities of divination and worthiness beyond meritocracy. A psychopathic telepath who can and does intrude into your thoughts and obtain all information needed to assess situations and probabilities of returns of love and the like, while sabotaging and oppressing rivals is not worthy of trust or the demand of it. That is the definition of a despot, only more spiritually diseased, and such inhumans should be killed more than anything.
The other extreme, someone who does not have the capability to easily divine your true feelings and wants, while having been damaged from birth to lack confidence, a stable sense of worth, and even the prior relationships to know signs can be trusted and women can actually move beyond cruelty and abuse, is disadvantaged beyond a simple handicap. That they have lived to this time to challenge your love is evidence enough that they are strong far beyond the spin of the entitled.
Now let me make clear just how the co-optation of trauma by capitalism has become a caricature of justice more clear.
Women have become puppets of their internalized patriarchal, capitalist domination, their rape, in a counter-rape co-opted to form perverted capitalist oil to speed up the machine. To anyone with wits, I do not need to explain the tenet or the new dimension of the “pro”, I do not need to explicate the prolific interpretation of Covid-19 as its numeric prerogative, as the ethics of the cure for the abuse of capitalism demanded as further abuse.
Repetition compulsion knows its number. And denial projects in global electronic abuse addictions of another kind. It’s not you checking updates on your smartphone, it’s alcohol, it’s tobacco, it’s whatever’s legal and not quite checking the perversity mark.
The between which separates is holy, thus never stands in the way of possible events which cleave the knowing from the abused. My father fulfilled my name, and his name is where I find my peace. You who struggle in his syllables are the letters which deserve not to eat. My forest is ruled by the bald one, he who repeats, flies the replacement of your love, of all love, certain not to disturb the calm I’ve built from disappointment, the mirror shadow which my screams undoes in a knowing of the nightmare twilight whispers.
And dying has become a popular sport
While the flesh from my knuckles is bleeding wizards
My drinking a crime as all space life aborts
Tales can be regrown, crie the most slavelike lizards
And there’s never a tell of your hand touching mine
And if there is, sure is its testing of brine
Your shadow is fleeting, alighting the sign
I’m longing for eyes, life where my soul is thine
