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ss [12 Jul 2021|11:03am]
yeah londons a scratch on the lens
towers and tunnels remind me of him
barcelona open again
we needed the beaches to host all the preachers
shood from the corners because her or him

hair in the grass
ant passway alas
the clouds and my lenses
revealed the suns edges
as expected its a perfect
circle

a life a drop in the thames
the storefronts of new freedom sing out and in
touching the beak of a bird
the gardens shoot melodies into thick air (next to frisbees)
and they all remind me of her

i dont long anymore
i know it will pass
and always come more
infinitely so
and if it stops
i won't know

/

darling do you wanna dance with me
ive seen the world and had my cake
dearest shouldnt we go somewhere else
ive seen it all and then
some

/

the water is warmer then the wind
the security guards are buying ice cream
reggae and dub, play it for me
mr mc gets high towers over me

dark skin
white teeth
everybodys kissed by sun ray hereabout
chlorophyl
melanin
everybody gathered for the ship heading out
bright night
you light
up to the horns and snares and the fights
simple
complex
horizon approaches
dj spin one for drain rats and roaches the boys carry like torches
over any damp park dawn
over girlfriends and wives

dawn is almost nothing now
street sweepers and preachers go about
detroit and jersey, turn it up higher
mr dj spin my head round the fire

movies
music
everyone outside getting high and down
sunburn
suits me
people coolin out til the break of dawn
city
skies are blank
kids on their scooters shooting through the parks
trees cover
us in sap
morning sugar crystals on your phone tastes love
rolled up
paper
swinging in your branches while now turns to later
relax
party
hanging with some artsy friends

/

wearing my dirtied converse
theyve almost worked their season
going berserk over previous thots and illusions for no reason
his poetry bad
intonation worse
this nationwide uprising wouldnt hurt a town square bird
recalling the elm
tree seeds that freely with
the wind would invade the apartment while i sinned
and balanced on the tram tracks
the trams go forth and back
we’d put a lego man there
and watch him get steamrolled flat
sometimes when the sun’s out
in a certain way i go back
to the rocks or the roofs
we always climbed to get our nerve back
life is better when you know your effort makes it better
i wonder about every girl, what if i hadnt met her
my curls have grew back
they’ve almost worked their season
the best things bout being ive done for no reason

i’ve seen the world
ive seen it all
ive got my pearls and my balls

his poetry got slammed
enunciation cursed
this nationwide uprising wouldnt hurt a limping bird
recalling the flowers
all the petals freely in
the wind that’s invading the block i live in

/

now im just another girl in a sweather
stringing along hoping for the better
medieval times concieved man beast elisions as strictly demonic
my love goes through my heart but its rendered histrionic
i knew at the center an unbroken two sexed eros
pretty much history was unbreakawayable from

/

got a little bit loneliness left in me and a little bit of horniness to spare for theee
the air turns warm the waves roll in horizon from
and i see ur body like an axis form a dance for us
u take my arm a cold fever the other one and i can sense convergence form a chance for ... can you sense coercion really turns me on..?

a/w20 [23 Jun 2021|05:55pm]
already dark between four and five, a hovering avatar of concave economic pain is bothering me like a programmed enemy, insulting me, i’m a prostitute, i’m becoming one. it is categorically true. the behavior of whore, falling down the canal walkway, walking like the destiny of homelessness has been choreographed and practiced. every step the foot falls in both now and then, the future is as likely as ever. people berating me with patterned walking, the way architecture has forced a certain shape containing people, so there is no one to blame. god. something above that inhibits cognition.

behind a dark storefront window and the people beyond are flashing in segments. could i get closer to them, understand a sympathy for them, it would be like removing skin and with salt making sure the inner stays exposed. to dry. having caused a lot of pain, being pained is as intimate as knowing yourself gets. mgmt kids baile funk remix. having caused a lot of pain is extreme self involvement. as is causing nothing. you hurt others because you look at them and see yourself. you look at yourself and glorify your relevance in the lives of others to understand the extent of the damage. now you are stuck. there are no memories, much less good ones, that aren’t shared. you age into a state of absolute encasement, where what has never gotten out has nothing to attach to when it tries to get out. that which is anti-memory. what is related to others is a shell without unlock-mechanism. like a fruit with a pristine peel only revealing the rotten flesh once cut open, it is uncontrollable fraud. okay okay hello. who wants to employ a cracked facade of a person who has no arms or legs to reach with, who receives well meaning touch as rape. it's not a fair premise for any parts reaching toward each other across thresholds of realities. the only thing is buildup of desperation that becomes the poetic-evil oscillation. the only event is perverse exhibition. truly, an artist has failed if he makes it out of work alive. time to pretend house remix. bad customer service. so he must fail and fail and fail, and when the breaking from failure to artistry succeeds, and the artist dies, he must be loathed. even purged. nobody can know.

as traumatic as possible or it was not true love
the heavy caffeinated steps
or it was not love
maximum deterioration on the street in the middle of the day dropping all belongings so that they scatter and roll under the feet of the people walking normally
or it wasn’t
hate or it wasn't
no more intestines/insides
or it was not
no more music only silence
or it was not true
eternal bureaucracy over asphalt over autism over street crossings and cease to exist
or it was not true love
i just wanna tell you that no people have war in their countries, or








transmissions

receiving makes me physically ill. a sickness from in between the throat and belly reaches from upwards and down its hook. a large and heavy lump took the bait. a message pulls down in my pocket in my bag wherever i put it it gravitates. according to have i eaten, have i had coffee, tobacco-nicotine, the illness twists and turns in newer screensaver manners. turns to a burning or a singing pain floating toward the chest, caressing it from inside. notified, they have to be removed blindly. sometimes it is like a stab or a scab, who has put letters together for me this time. incomprehensible symbols, as opposed to. if i catch a glimpse of the article, or video, or picture, that was supposed for me me it is too late, but i can not pursue further. there is no other way but averting. everything. i’m pulled in two directions by being a burden and being burdened. a spinning sensation in the skull behind the eyes. face, falling, chastised, locked up. now put life on hold in order to focus on this threat, for weeks if necessary. an invite to combat, with words. i’m an infant. my head is simmering, sit down. am i on the underground? the people around me towering unaware. the shortest, shrunken, ancient woman looking down upon me. i am melting through the coat into the seat with fingertips buzzing. also, i am transmitting all of my thoughts to this person reaching out to me. now they know the nature of my failure. in this moment i am being cut off. if i would be able to collect the power to a simple response right now it would bounce. the recoil knocks me out, a foot on my head. my facial features bubbling with leprosy tuned to the ringing in my ears it sounds like blackened dots. expected to comprehend these words, translate them into language, conversation, letters come one by one. indecipherable. spun inside scornful gibberish. there is nothing in the world except flakes of skin start falling. and stale tufts. i am expected. fluid surrounding the heart will pump the erotic. chains with the heavy caller around my neck, purple bruising surfaces. and achy cheeks off all kinds. lips flaking too. i understand that i don’t. the landscape convulses and is observed only without grasping differences, meaningful nuances. vomit only exists in relation to holes. what are you saying, or doing. are we the same race. if we are, can you drill my cranium, pour out the opening and see what is offered. i have looked at my body enough to turn to other animals. i am looking for real and fake information regarding all of this









should be in this window writing at all costs the street stretches right from down the window and forward like a red carpet. if the plants died and my shelf fell off the wall i would kill myself. free seminar in literary critique. you won’t know how pleased i was at your invitation to the rave, what happens to my skin when it stretches out dont redact me i will drown in my phone just wish i was being punched like a nail right now

terminal gate [09 Dec 2020|07:14pm]


“...today the flags will all fly green at the embassies. You’re here next to me, except you’re not.”

here’s the skinny: in Pang (2019) there is but urbanity. beginning literally parted from love by iron bars (or worse–gate 12 at international departures?), then involving a choreography of plane rides and waiting halls, eventually left with no option but cutting the trip short by jumping out the cabin over a mall-highway-landscape. it’s marble walls, flattened granite plazas, metal and metal-imitation structures that's surely gone pang. the cranes that splays it all out, stacks it all on, must go pang at the end of the day, too. pop(!), that were to be our body/affect mixologist, operates here now, in a debate where synapses and bridges have burned and blackly flayed in the wind, where the architecture of the body usurped as weapon for city planning terror agencies has been advertised the bodily experienced renewed. lovers turn caressing toward sensors, eyes turn contact toward scanners, intercourse is the international course of civil security–the intimate frisk at the screening, the even more intimate occasional slipped through knife for good measure. a pang, inside your head, yet as if unreachably distant, as takeoff challenges pressure. about this, pop, you must now sing, when what you sing about is love or the loss of it.
how the ultimate affection right now is enduring terminal whiteness, corridors as connecting chambers under a pyramid, doors to doors to doors. this is what i’ve gone through for you. as long as we are separated, i will text you about what i’d do to your body, but i remain unfaithful with these buildings. and when we are shaping our bodies together once more–trying to–, it will be written so clearly under the skin how love, ours too, is long outsourced. it is london instead. it is los angeles, maybe L.A. ... it’s professionals catching cars. it is writing albums that use once and destroy, and caroline polachek seeing the sun sink into the clouds below, not yet quite aware she’ll already be sterile when he buzzes her in tonight.
they’ll fuck anyways

[*Window seat 10–22 F, 2016, Yngve Holen]

it is by mistake and design [18 Nov 2020|11:02pm]


disappearing to gain time
flip the shit
spend it worrying where everyone went
are you safe, cause you maybe change me, and
what happens to my safety
if you aint
or didn’t come or came

it may be my way of circling
lack of promise
and fear of mutual. betting too much
faith on what is already almost gone
between lime and patron

nothing disappears though,
no one disappears so
maybe I ought to see a second city
layered beneath this one,
to give my mum a call.

my son will be grabbing at my shoulders
carried cross the streets, the bums
if anythings bleeding at stake for me, it’s him
his clearing conception of the closed buildings

can I lean in as a layer
of clothes you are wearing
and/or not
wearing the walls of your
poor bedroom will
wear the fuck out of them

it’s kind of famous to be
this star crossed
never having learned exploitation
they didn’t teach exploitation
it wasn’t inclusive enough

going to school to fail and pass,
hard and away,
his score is dirty but his hands are clean
experienced doesn’t equal known
anymore
forbidden knowledge,
as opposed to?
life hack,
as opposed to?

the gentlest hand installing
a tower of babel to place on our head
the crown derailing communion
in Rudbeck’s garden,
five grand towers
to be mounted in bright summer
night that screams morning
by kids with hard soda cases

off to the evening, comic of the races
all chances are bastards
alternately,
classes are bimbofying
in mountain dew grass
in ulterior city

double exposure,
as opposed to?
some things you can’t unsee
some people shit brix in eternity
act young and oppose to,
only true high schoolers know the implication of
“who wants a shot?”
and the suspense of
“seeding peers”

deviant art,
as opposed to?
if all goes to nothing
i’ll let the next self in line
know

that

There was a conspiracy against
me thanks
to Harvey Weinstein and I was hit
by a truck which was no accident
but attempted murder
and I talk
about that in the documentary
they’re making about my life

as traumatic as possible or it was not true love
the heavy caffeinated steps
or it was not love
maximum deterioration on the street in the middle of the day dropping all belongings so that they scatter and roll under the feet of the people walking normally
or it wasn’t
hate or it wasn't
no more intestines/insides
or it was not
no more music only silence
or it was not true
eternal bureaucracy over asphalt over autism over street crossings and cease to exist
or it was not true love
i just wanna tell you
that no people have war in their countries, or

there’s only one city. stacking slacking
stacking upon itself.
i want to kill you for reading this, and i will.
and myself for all of this. which is not me.
but me in a, hiding, hole in the shape of a character.
that i’m gonna use n abuse the shit out of. hehe
when i’m less tired. there is only one option
to live in. it is by mistake and design.
to rewalk steps in. back and forth.
appearing again and again.
because they are taunting you. or are they escorting
you??? boot down your pant so that you pant and pant
and pant so much more will happen when you get it out
of the…

the…

the end

make the ends meet again

make the end great again

two longer poems april-september 2020 [17 Sep 2020|10:19am]
untitled

i loathe these bisexuals, little attention whores that need be put down. my friends have a gay time, i say something controversial, take it back, their giggles run amok. but i never joke, not ever have i told a joke. the autism was a causality of never landing a joke, not vice versa. when i realised what was going on it was way overdue. i mostly work, i admit, i pass because of my skin and bone composition, bone complexion, which is what people are faced with and mostly allow to pass. there aren’t two voices at war in my head, five six seven at most, intervals and spurs. this is where we’re at. this night, being crushed under a weight of noir, a glimmering freeze creeping up over the jetty. i am happy, ecstatic with my position. who’s already died at my hand and who’s about to, is already in the process of blurring, compromising. there’s not much else but sugar in me. it needs release, a large body trapped in a tiny mind.

the autism was a causality of never landing a joke, not vice versa. when i realised what was going on it was way overdue. people who accuse conspiratorics of grasping for straws, of invalidating their own cause by paranoically seeing stalking in every thing, do not know what feeling is. the lack of empathy with the sense of permeating discomfort, the kind that is often attributed by normies to the moment one is being observed, of which the focal point erratically wanders in fear of getting caught in the web. when nature and technology is scientifically one so that hiding spots are an historical idea, claustrophobia transcends the body and perfumes the air instead, shifting with the heat of the sun and the chill of clouds. massive, bloated information swelling like rice in the tummy, fogging the connective receptors between body and brain. obviously you’ll wanna melt for a while, opaque the eyes, you want to be taken seriously when having a laugh, but as you zoom out, or touch down again, the bold iron rods shielding, but not fully shielding, become impressionable again. you can be a frog. you can be a dude. it won’t matter when you cannot exit.

a step with jazz, a step with blues, one step two,



ammo boy (working title)

at the event horizon, reeling my masculinity in. from hidden away in the void of information, where pussies daren’t search. yet, they suspected correctly, that this is the point from which you start perceiving happening, event. horizon. kids catch my drift. adults, you wonder if they ever were anything else, if pubescence is a transmuting out of this world. the husks of adulthood, sown in the barren. failed escapees turned automaton to perpetuate their own viral pathologising of maze-like symbolic controversies. walking the earth. the z word. i am standing at the lightening horizon. like any pilot, about to maneuver an overpowered weapon into the immortal architecture of

a hallway becoming what you make of it. the further you’ve been probed into, the greater potential. the people of my class walk down this road a hundred times every week, mapping out what is to become their bursting trauma onto these fleshy walls. uneven and dull like a sore rectum, a tired throat. the pedagogues, coded–in the mainframe of the architecture–to teach us how you bend down over a person, how the curve aiming from neck to pelvis will weigh you down on the pillow after bedtime, have many a time tasked us with caressing these walls of a wound, scraping tack, decorating. the pedagogues are people-furniture. enemiels, animas. furniture rots. we pass through this orifice like a second home, an air tight chute, impregnating with the stench of our ceaseless state of seminality. before, when dropped off and approaching the opening from afar, i couldn’t help looking back imagining the gigantic weapon that had created it. that is a record wound, i thought, never healing, always frothing at the edges with cells in decline. can you unlearn cavity. me, it’s burned under my eyes. three fingers angled and armed, i aim at

the people of my class, designated to black hole 1, has had to elaborate games of connecting curves and gestures resembling the movements of the pedagogues hostile encounters. our method is crucial, as failing to chart what we’ve understood as a specific pattern of collective thinking is a promise of our relinquishment. there can not be rescue pods for the groups unable to determine that pattern before it determines them. game of nature, nature of game.

crossing from out to inside, i know this will be my final time in the wound. as the mission checks out i will emission through the exit doors in a fertile culmination, carrying a seed of knowledge from the world that connects with our through the pink passage. the tissue will be torn once and for all, exposing the flesh to the exterior that will so certainly be it’s rot. and as i plumb deeper into the orifice by myself, the more apparent made is the weakness of the nostalgic tremor. my presence is mostly clutching at the nearness of the end of these days, of being a cell in a stream of blood. and in this an acceptance nears, of the unpromised emancipatory function of this return action. like when a summer break comes to close and your wrists start to itch longingly for the firm grip of the in-field bully procedures, the pointlessness of living untouched surfaces expectedly. at the verge of emancipation you face that you are preventing outliving yourself. i did not indulge anyone with my scheme. down the hallway, the murmur piling at the walls, the games are running according to the regular psychosexual schedule, the classes choreographing against the pedagogues, until the second where time splits at my hands. the halves mirror

our games, officially translated through the mission as orgies, launched both as calculated penetrations of the pedagogues own psychological methods, and the instinctive response anyone would have triggered facing such a coercive structure of sexual impulses. one of the first times i was sent in field we were supposed to counter an authoritative current that had been charging for days and was just about to set off. as a few higher-ups had been fraternising with a pedagogue proxy that had just arrived, as she was stacking innuendae and bouncing her body across the room, the channel accidentally changed, for brief seconds implying a new reward system under implementation. the act had to be swift and even most of us newcomers became involved in the synopsis of a mission that begun on the next week-day, right after the weekend. the indoctrinating of affirmation had to be splintered on such short notice, not to risk more (than the already handful) of our own fallen. there were going to be no more sent but in a full year. assigned to imprint the pedagogue seat with our mirrored replica of the curve they were imposing on us, me and a fellow female non-commissioned, under the watch of an elder boy, succeeded to catch a window in the schedule on tuesday. we hastened up, approaching the seat, both newbies walking quickly and stalely, nervous to mess up the positions. she took up small talk as we approached and began mounting the seat, asked about my parent’s background and such. to which i gave her some detail, atop the seat now. no indication of unsafety from the elder boy yet, we began choreographing, patterning our limbs and pelvises to our best. the complexity to instinct is what makes it difficult to decipher. a drop of sweat spilled from her belly down over mine, her calves tensing as she focused her weight onto the fabric of the seat, making sure we would leave having made a good enough imprint. in nearing the conclusive pose i realised i should have inquired of her family too, but as we were completing our work my finger was to seal the deal by stroking back to front the entire zone through her underwear. as soon as contact was established gravity seemed to overturn 90 degrees and i heard her word pulsating through my finger to materialise in the back of my ears. i could catch her eye, despite the impossible angle, like only our heads remained of our bodies. she spoke only about one word, but conveyed her entire loss of family, staring right at me. a sudden envy spurred my abrupt breaking of eye contact. the moment, which really lasted for no more than two seconds, had run it’s hour course, as she

no climax, no point, no meaning [30 Apr 2020|02:41pm]
know it before i start, oh next time i'll stop it
you should have known me then
i do as i do again, make the distance and watch it
like somehow i regret
sure, smerz



if i could bottle up this endless melancholy i’d sell it to kids as party poppers, never fake it. little vials for midnight. some older people constructed that moment when the clock strikes twelve signaling the new year, when the world stops and the heart begins. i think we are labouring to get just one or two nights a week without that moment. santa monica, hackney, the five forty eurostar, basements and bathrooms.
we knew, way before being close to able to recognising or articulate it, how, as a band roaming the streets, we were in a systematic bond with others, bands, roamers. if you never felt it you never were it, it’s for many but not everyone. a gathering with intent is an ancient formation, no brick walls nor glass foyers ever succeeded in inhibiting nature from following our proceedings, establishing the links.
smoke is a hyperlink, the smoke of a dance floor on fire, the smoke of a club space in flames, the smoke of a break, the smoke of thousands of years of uninterrupted ritual. strobe is a hyperlink, undermining time, defining the contours of apparition. bass is a hyperlink, rustling everyone’s bones into ignition. eventually we could see we were shaken so good, because we were shaken by some other, through time and space, and as we felt their increasingly firm grip on our shoulders, we began grasping, grabbing back, grasping behind.

[redacted]

when i left i was lethally terrified to be fallen in love with, to fall in love, to be fallen out of love with, to fall out of love. when zizek was asked about the feeling of love he said it’s “Like a great misfortune, a monstrous parasite, a permanent state of emergency that ruins all small pleasures.” no offense to him, but london is so zizekian. meaning his version of neoliberal hell is aptly analogous with the city. anna khachiyan called it something along the line of the most neoliberal place in the world, the pret a manger’s, the self checkouts. you can get a room in the most hideous flat at any time if you’ve got a fifteen hundred plus rent budget. so vile that any peripheral beauty is magnified. it pisses me off how cut off my emotions are generally, in proportion to how afflicted i am by love. in real time, affect paralyzes me, just to transform into a forceful, manic lingering.
fixated on not being approached, physically, even more crucially mentally, psychologically, all of it seemed a constant failure. trying my hardest to discern between affect and deep emotional reaction, because risking a let down was eviscerated from the picture. falling in love would appear a distorted mode of being, when it closed in on me. it had blinded itself in terror of its own shadow, i had. meanwhile, cutting whatever frail emotional ties that had been thrown out felt like a definite castration of the heart. the risk of never feeling for anyone again feels grotesque. when life has been lived months at a time, at most, reconciling with a lifetime of loneliness appears like obligatory suicide. later, if not before, these thought loops have been tangled in the mechanics that perform all my social functions. i have no idea who have met me, spoken to me–no memory, or understanding, rather, of who i’ve been when i’ve lived my life. i could have been awkward, confident, a sex symbol, a drunk, psychotic, apathetic. control is lost at birth, the rest is sisyphean, like losing grip and falling a few metres down the ladder, getting a hold of a step and pulling oneself back up to the same spot over and over. inevitable gravity. i look everywhere when speaking to someone, speak about anything, in the end i have no clue who i’ve seen or what was said.

some friends never stop moving, they will burn through any line, assume position on the floor, illuminate the space. just by velocity they produce a shine that fragments, through the stocked bottle racks crowding the wall behind the bar, into an entirely new population of prism rainbows. the place can be half full, yet, with them there, at max limit. and their dance seems more profound off the floor even, when moving like a social flame through a fog of conversation, when reciting a line together from wherever in a bathroom stall.

why is my gut reaction repulsion when i see the massive pr for student counselling at uni? can’t put my finger on it. a basic bitch tweet about getting help immediately if one thinks uni will be a struggle has been burned into my memory for some reason. who tweeted that men wants to fuck their therapist and women wonders if their therapist wants to fuck them? i see a therapist once for an evaluation meeting, i wonder if he wants to fuck me. would? we barely get through half of my shit, he sees me again for extended evaluation. i tell him about not being able to text my family or friends, not being able to do phone calls for years now, how i’ve isolated myself to my most suicidal point ever, this fall. in just a couple of months. uni can only offer four free counselling sessions, which, it’s implied, is far less than what i need. he prints me a list of numbers for psychiatrist offices around london. some are cheaper, closer to school, other positives. my assigned student halls are draining me for cash, i borrow hundreds from my parents all the time.

[redacted] the most beautiful boys imaginable, stubbornly aware it’s all an evil trick. you don’t need body dysmorphia to be a barbarian in the most intimate encounter with an angel. the most apparent of traps are aware of their own appeal, anyone will take the chance and fail to exit unharmed. an angel is covered in eyes, a glance is an acknowledgement is an unfair leveling. in the city, an animal running for a university presentation in the morning, hideous on the bus. immersed in the most humiliating pleasure. beautiful boys turn you into a joke which warms you inside out all the way home, january, february. they can strike you across the cheek, hand can be closed, open, like they’re slapping caffeine into the deepest layer of your skin. take it because you want to be them. if you ever will, pass on the tradition. do it because you’re in love with them falling in lust with you. hideous boys rendered sublime, a finger goes between the lips, a drop of sweat and a drop of tear emulsifying. the committed failing at keeping a solid grip around their pictures and songs and smell.

encounters with avatars. in my sleep i die, every night. in the morning someone waking up in my bed, a big, fresh sun right on the outside of the window. and he has to improvise with residue from the successes and failures of his copies. he encounters avatars, remembers the tongue inscribing the pattern over his body, but not how he reacted. the city screaming through the window is lulling. pinpoint, is this close to a big break up or further from it? waking up in a strange bed full of belongings. happiness and repulsion and exhaustion and the want to be with people. a moment in which living is threateningly ambivalent, this is close to cathartic. someone else waking up near hollywood, light filtered through dust settling after an orgy. all waking up drinking their dreams. a crossed head for a blank slate.
right after i’ve arrived in london i travel to paris fashion week to attend a casting, knowing i won’t get the job. the guy sitting next to me is a model heading for the same casting, we realise when we arrive after four hours. i am a nodel. many kids from all around the world have been flown in for fittings and walking, most leave after a day or two like me. a girl decides we meet in the lobby that evening to go out do something, eat something, see something and i bail. i do nothing in paris, except for walking up and down the streets for many hours. it is hot and beautiful, even as i get the phone call telling me i’ve been removed from the show. at my initial arrival the casting crew asks for my pronouns, at which i laugh nervously, saying whatever’s fine, meaning–are you serious? but since they’ve gotten in touch with me online they seem to think my username is my real name, a woman’s name, and since i’m not in the height spectrum of the male models, i suppose i must be a woman. is it okay, they ask, wearing womenswear? it’s an absurd question to ask someone who’s selling their body, but i must, in fact, be autistic enough in this moment for them to see before them a difficult, on the verge of fragile, person. it’s okay, womenswear, i’m the object here. i get some cash in an envelope and a ticket home.

[redacted about sally rooney, "the neoliberalising of communism, of university, of feminism", important quote: "as a feminist, have the right to not love any person" - conversations with friends]

at the time being. class assembling at the sticky pub by the end of the day, bringing loaded chips from the shack across the street, chips with beans and cheese. a continuity of things happening right here, and the inconveniences of living splitting them apart. conversation as a sensation, for the body to descend momentarily. an environment so tacky, your hands can only let go of my arms at great effort, stringily. my face and brain freezing and slumped in the shoreline of street and pavement as usual. embracing you perishing projection for months afterwards, a body of escalating corporeality as reaching right through it decreases in strenuosity, like a blind little fool. chips on peas on cheese on these cracked seats, a tear in skin and a tear oriented toward the depth of the eye. i have to bail, as soon as i get off the night coach i throw up this elastic vomit while walking the entire short walk home, over my shoulder or into my pocket, as if whispering. that’s the best cause it feels so skinny to get home. how soon will my dizziness be permanent, please come.

stars were a grid

inversion hour. death, instead of being someone leaving the world, being the world leaving someone. the actual end of the world.



rules

sheer iridescent rainbow sports bra

glittered astma inhalator

golden specked decolletage

extra large orange plastic hoops

multi-colored press on’s

hi hi hi im in l****n 😳 [redacted] whats happening

year of sin in a smoke and a crack
out of the blue and into the blight
does selling out further take it all back
at opportunity i just might

four poems [24 Mar 2020|05:18pm]
when people begin embracing solidarity…

practice distancing practice distancing practice distancing we are all in this together the problem is division the problem is not listening to the authority that’s been ever capable of preparing preemptive measures we must alert we must listen we must comply and i mean me and especially you in times like these and in these times one needs to step up and support each other oh i can’t go out in the streets i can’t take action i can’t do the work on location but don’t worry the importance is in spreading practice spreading practice social spreading if there is one thing to learn from this it’s the importance of making shit go viral let’s fuck with the algorithm i’m sure i’m not the first person telling you this but i need to share some very normal language with you the chorus to jolene is exactly 20 seconds long

...because alienation suddenly encapsulates solidarity…

listen to them they’re not doing enough you must listen to them they’re not doing enough listen to them what are they doing support locally but don’t visit i want to make sure that there are local businesses to walk by without ever entering when this goes back to normal when all of this is over this situation i just hope there is some ethnicity left in this neighbourhood which the perpetuation of i hopefully can continue to be shielded from we and our neighbours found this app where we can order some uber drivers to install balconies on which we will be continuing our traditional weekly communal singing hour we cherish it so much we will be gathering as usual just a little further apart we are concerned with suddenly being cut off from our rich social life we are singing charli xcx on our balcony together everyone has their individual sanitised bottle of poppers this time

...they get to relish their superficially virtuous contribution…

stay home stay home stay home you don’t give a fuck about old people you want them to die do you not want them to get through this alive so they can lie in their dried piss and shit for a decade do you seriously not think old people should be allowed to chose chronic depression and deficient meals chewed by deficient teeth this is your doing there is responsibility to be taken for everyone and i am taking mine so fucking seriously i would die for your right to choose to die the most slow and painful death imaginable and for your right to never open your mouth don’t put this on c***a it’s nobody’s fault they were born c*****e they can’t help it but i can help them maybe you’re the type of person meant to go down in a situation like this if you think like that can’t these silly orange people just bite the dust while we’re on it look they shook hands let’s pray they practically kissed which i would never do obviously i’m not a maniac i have some decency and respect oh you’re like a child don’t you realise the gravity of this moment it’s unprecedented i’m so unique i mean it’s so unique

...while rationalising their compliance in the neoliberal destruction of human bonds

i want to stay home i want to stay home i want to stay home i just ordered this david lynch poster on etsy for my asbestos wall do you really think a coworking space is flexible enough for you i’m so thankful that i can still perform my job from here tfw everyone realises that meeting really could have been just an email damn i wish sorry that was just me screenshotting i just have to put this on my story so people are aware we suddenly do family video conferences what no we’ve been doing that before it just felt crucial in a moment this critical to show everyone else it’s beautiful here cause i get to decide i know what my eyes will be exposed to when i wake up i know there will not be no weeds or weather or decay unless i say so which i could because i can my life serves a purpose finally some time off from my fulfilling occupation that was instantly dismissible good thing in times like these i have devoted my life to alarmist information distribution lmao stupid hoarders don't react like that react like this stupid people in times like these soon it will be normal soon i will be normal soon this will go back to

damn bitch, you live like this? [02 Feb 2020|11:33am]
in defense of the poor bedroom


Untitled (My bed), 2018. Meme.

the poor bedroom is a battleground of moral superficiality. it leaves your clothes reeking when you exit, sticks to your feet. melting the material and metaphysical artefacts of adolescence-adulthood transition together, eradicates distinguishability. it upsets comforts, distills, organises, entices, and depraves through its construing of lethargic middle class disidentification. it’s inherited through the quasi-poor bedrooms of the grown, functioning, hard working, depressed, balanced, disenfranchised, safe, unemployed, and rich who can no longer claim the poor bedroom.


Iku Nagae in a messy room, 2018. Posted to Funnyjunk by @greeeed.

the poor bedroom is rebelling against, not only its parents, but its maid. it’s re-gentrifying, nature-reinforcing, eco system-embracing, liquifying the fixed notions of precious and disposable, letting laziness cascade in utter refusal of home styling conformity. between days of dried plates, forgotten-about tea cups, face down books, entangled tights, chords, cash, personal letters, official documents, ripped packaging, torn pages, an undeniably assertive space is constructed. equally a signifier of neglect and detailed planning, the poor bedroom jumps out, startles its tourists and demands a negotiation of standards, values, levels of taste.


Instagram Posts, 2019. Dasha Nekrassova (@dash_cam).

the poor bedroom does not moralise over hygiene, discomfort, or 21st century allergenicity. it feeds off overtime, covered shifts, all nighters, and apathy hours. the poor bedroom devours every last bit of stressed essay writing, depression holes, single parents, and maraton ravers it can get its hands on. it is aware of its borders, there’s no poor bedroom in the home of a hoarder, but emphasises the potential limitlessness that it carries where its edges crumble. it whispers of the poor society, a thing that might have been but more importantly as an insurrection flickering on the horizon. by enhancing a chaos that is otherwise contextualised as a belonging of the past the poor bedroom, just like the dirty alley and the contents of a torn garbage bag spread all over the bus stop, scratches the varnish that envelops sociopolitical mechanisms, urging us to redefine our ethical relation to the neat and tidy. it tells us; i’ve been here all along, you did not use to despise me, and yet, we have ended up in this situation.


Otaku toom pinned by @Rinji_Mifuzu on pinterest.

the poor bedroom is not an invention but an invitation. entering is considered, rather than an action taken for granted. furthermore the poor bedroom insists on that consideration being kept in motion by innovating technology through sloppiness, reformatting conventions of the home experience, and stripping the room of one's own bare from voyeuristic ideals leaving always-altering ruins of the everyday that passed just moments ago. and what bounty within those ruins, the poor bedroom offers us its treasures only through scavenging; fragments of a living in every kind of condition.


Shitty battlestation found on /r/shittybattlestations.

when the poor bedroom gets cleaned up it, in fact, does not die. it has no enemies. under current circumstances it cannot be destroyed, only transferred from one form to another. it respawns at any given checkpoint, it is always given another chance until it defeats the boss. it lurks in the walls, the air even, awaiting its next opportunity of expansion, like a parasite hangs on a strand of grass in anticipation of a passing by mammal to bite in to. the poor bedroom hits you and it feels like a kiss.


Tweet, 2017. @elotepreparado.

the poor bedroom is the success of the adolescent class. the poor bedroom is chaos, thus feminine, and its pubertal afflictions on the nuclear home is intimately tied to the young-girl. the poor bedroom is not featured on hoarders nor obsessive compulsive cleaners, since it manifests through passive strategizing rather than pathology. it needs not be saved, but recognized and dealt with as its discrete foundational ideological stances. the poor bedroom spreads, swallows bathrooms, closets, kitchens, it is the metamorphosis of the living space induced by a disavowal of norm-architectural structuring of ‘the room of one's own’. there is no negligence present in a poor bedroom, but precise and intricate re-distribution of order executed with warm care. the poor bedroom is shocking, merely in its upsetting radiance of love. the poor bedroom is skinny, fuck satisfactual lives. no soap is cut, no sand is squeezed, in the poor bedroom, without engendering an overcompensatory mess. the poor bedroom feeds on caffeine. it fears not konmari, for its inherited self-awareness of resilience.


Left: Domain (Still), 2006. Guthrie Lonergan. Right: Dorm Daze, 2011. Ed Fornieles in The Hangover Part II at Carlos Ishikawa, London.

the poor bedroom maneuvers skilfully through networks of aesthetic-conventional imperatives to successfully breach and dissolve coherent borders of dignity within the context of the home. the home at its fundamentals is questioned through the poor bedrooms mimicry of unsupervised alleys. the streets and the subway stations are the poor bedrooms allys. the poor bedroom is an ecosystem on which surveillance inflicts harm. the scar tissue of the poor bedrooms skin grows thick and resistant.


Instagram story, 2019. Anna Khachyian (@annakhachyian).

the poor bedroom does not only ‘bring joy’, it is the principle of joy, the condition for anything to bring joy, within contemporary childhood. during the incongruous infantilizing process of growing up in a world composed by roles that keep precarity and speculation as their ideological fundaments the poor bedrooms ability of recourse and sanctuary is perpetuated out of desperation, as a last nostalgic resort that persuades its own continuous re-establishment. the poor bedroom is allowed to hide, it conceals and contours in order to keep its process of rooting and rotting going during moments of mania and post-cum clarity.


SKEE, 2019. Bora Akinciturk and Iain Ball at Narrative Projects, London.

no space is as ideologically unbound as the poor bedroom, which in its anarchy disrupts neo-liberal facades and while maneuvering its compliant consumption – articulating a capitalist plea – boasting both puppy eyes and a contemptuous laugh in the face of whatever hegemony it comes across. don’t try anything in its presence, staring into these puppy eyes you will soon find its the predecessor to orwell’s big brother, but a reversed entity – blind as a bat, only peering inwards, structuring its chaos, engaging a mosh pit of commodities as a pastime. establish a new decadence, drink it in, let it enrich you.


Tweet, 2016. @og_pochahontas.

[2018–2019]

poetic justice for late oughties internet addicts [22 Jan 2020|05:24pm]
reading list: https://twitter.com/tylerthecreator/status/285670822264307712

a chain of successful ideological proposals, in which the cyber bullying scare must have been the first major and longest running component, has removed any and all potential of online spaces as tools toward a less hostile human existence. as human beings inexorable from the (feminine) drives of nature, yet social (masculine) beings terrified of the fleshy consequences that burden entails for us, ever since the bare minimum of what we conceive of as society was established, we have been shackled to sublimating those very drives. this sublimation is the meaning of living, when living in society. throughout the history of society the subconscious has found its release through various spiritual, religious and mystic ritual practices, as well as more literal practices of violence, rape and terror. both ways have been despised and celebrated in their own right, and during different time periods, corresponding to cultural consensus. assault is what the human drive is construed as currently, a process in which sex is a means towards reproduction towards survival where the idea of consent is impossible to postulate. a consenting being will be used as raw material for fuelling a less considerate predator, consent means death. any sexual act today–that includes those involving body contact, as well as more grand scale rape like when one nation annexes another motherland–thus is assault unless institutionalised. a marriage, a doctors visit, a national crisis, a terror threat, a warehouse rave, justifies opening the lid to our chthonian inner, just a little bit, because it is necessary to do so from time to time. what early public internet offered was a new domain for testing the thresholds of thought and action, with no material consequences. a symbolic social territory in which a fully fledged sex act, a rape even, can be performed between immaterial bodies, to be tossed away momentarily and permanently. a visual space totally unlike physical existence, yet a simulacrum of the social games of society. this type of space had full potential of taking the entire hit of the human sub-psyche. the idea that one would be harmed from facing the abject on a computer screen could be true, just as well as it could have performed that specific harm it was alarming, conjuring a social pattern in which people eventually suffer from ephemeral symbolism because they have been told they should. on the contrary, would the abjectivity of the online have been embraced, encouraged, not shunned, it might have been the most successful domain for sublimating the drive ever encountered. instead the stakes of the drive in its physical manifestation, the stakes that from society day one instilled fear in us–that is, pregnancy, pain, humiliation, disease transmission, enslavement–have been transferred or copied from their physical agents into the virtual domain. on the grounds of responsibility and transparency, the extrajudicial state of online conversation has been largely thinned out by a social consensus in cooperation with corporate actors, the latter with financial gains in mind. this is how the most thoroughly global surveillance state in the history of humankind has been established, with concern for people’s risk at being exposed to their own inner lives, from a machine that can be turned off with the press of a button. you are now materially responsible for your immaterial actions, every and any post you make theoretically puts your employment on the line. the online used to be extrasocial, the geek as identity was fully outlined as a social trope when geeks were given the most immersive artificial environment dedicated to over the top fanaticism to date. the pendulum has now reached the absolute opposite. the internet is the social, and all social aspects of physical existence are corroded close to nothingness. this coincides with a thorough cleansing of even fringe platforms, removing those abject aspects of conversation not already conditioned away by late neoliberal vigilante ideology. an internet based platform largely fails to be a placeholder for real life. real life wasn’t sublimated and didn’t need to go anywhere. the sublimation of the “deep, dark” humanity, though, has been pushed out of the web to make space for this failing transferral of society. pushed out into an easy rifle access society, or a disintegrated judicial society, or an alienating out of work society. those are the domains where repressed desires and rejected libidinality must roam today, because transient words on transient screens once were deemed infectious lethal weapons. mass shootings, one of the more lethal memetic phenomenons of recent time, could potentially have remained image macros on the forum boards, we could have let them.

three poems, 2019 [09 Jan 2020|04:47pm]
women / girls

alix henriol marina joyce kirsten ostrenga hanna widerstedt jemma pixie hixon holli quinn catie wayne valeria lukyanova venus palermo jessica leonhardt chrissie barmore moriah pereira alana g natasha stewart malu trevejo sam abbey allison harvard becca schultz taylor crenshaw isabella monroe nguyen naomi elizabeth taylor crenshaw bea yagi kayla newman tish simmonds kristyna martelli paris herms emmy hartman tay cosgrove bunnycaress nasim aghdam marina ann hantzis stephanie lawson stevens prettygal naee michelle carter emma durutti lieutenant corbis belle delphine diario da neiri trisha paytas natassia gail zolot jordan capozzi aqsa m malik jeanette hayes đoàn thị hương yuka takaoka sanjhra banks amelia liana malaika kubwa blaire white catherine slater rashida renee nasim najafi aghdam anna vadimovna sorokina hannah hays danielle bregoli eugenia cooney mikhaila peterson rachel lee sara jane isbister nattalie blake whitney wisconsin






project x

“living like movie stars
partying like rock stars
fucking like porn stars”
–ja rule



i just wanted to get some pussy

you should have seen it

you got college girls on your dick

stealing shit breaking shit

get off me you little faggot dog

go have a long cry

i think i may have found some water in your semen

hey we want some pussy

its all on tape

she fucks college dudes

unlimited high school pussy and shit

dude

high school pussy for days

you are invited

witness it






lad bible

follow religiously
before school poppers

escape room
being in car

freeze in middle of dancefloor
giant group

city and river dancing
dont stop til you only live

i feel crazy
it feels wild

banned bay
theft museum

poignant starbuck
i love this dj

half out of body experience
the world spins

childrens clothing, i hope he sees
the energy never dies

seeing green smoothie
just close laptop

nine gag
for him

crusty cup
blog banned

permabanned
rohypnolically

opening turmeric shot
real housewives as opposed to?











> you make me feel like your a gangster
and im tha crime

> tight in the morning

> mornings kill each other

> text turn green
soo sexy oh sensual

> oh hi hi
hi

> he dreams of his first

> omg he

> omg i will dedicate this to

lexi featherston






more time passes the less it passes
normal people

facetime rikers
golden hour island

dog whistle fursona
fish is a baby

secret spun oyster
gossip girl,
as opposed to?



self loathing, proud
isla vista
type of passioned heart

love will cease
boys, on the way
to purify the world

beta eyes
full of life
thats been withheld
from the pit of my burning nauseous belly

insincerity absence
come prophet

identity weapon,
as opposed to?

need you like a baby when i hold you like a druggie like i told ya

i can has
multiple sin, laid bare back there

stolen eating weapon
humor weapon

gay boys on
woman understanding mission

just a few names
to rule the world

you, tube casualty
collateral beauty
as equivalent to.

fucking stakeless art
its trivialising all of this

just want to sit sun covered in the car, frozen untraumatised position
charging to write the definite poem on women, a book of which
you instinctively know the title

the prophet in the car, reaping across a life threshold
figure out how tha fuck to sow bountifully

hello heaven
you are a tunnel lined with yellow lights on a dark night

project XI-XV (removal fantasies) [11 Sep 2019|11:11pm]
XI. pursuit of happiness (moment for life)



‘wow. i don’t know how to fix this. i don’t know how to fix any of this shit. . . . i just wanted to get some pussy.’ – Project X (2012), dir. Nima Nourizadeh

the last failed attempt at keeping the dancefloor free of communicational intrusion was, according to mark fisher, lady gaga’s telephone. it made impact a decade ago, at a moment when a spotify account still could be obtained through invite only, something that now seems a calm before the platform economy storm that holds the current in its dizzying state.

XII. heads will roll (hit this city)



emptying bins in the street, throwing bags of trash, tvs and vacuum cleaners from a speeding car, jumping fences and smashing mailboxes with sledgehammers, tearing down flags, fucking shit up, lighting shit on fire, throwing it into the air to see glowing specks all over, kicking down signs. all property belongs to everyone, nothing is nobody’s. let’s fuck shit up, let’s go fuck shit up, it’s the mantra throughout ryan trecartin’s junior war (2013). a supercut of parties and open airs and parking lot hangouts, as if real life itself isn’t a web of highlights and fast forwarded passages. the senior is at war with the junior, the junior is at war with the senior and the self simultaneously. damage is inflicted on the nothing-things of the suburb streets, to perform a resistance act of teen punk logic against the world bound to swallow you. the real damage is always the self-inflicted, the arrest and the curfew that will never meet its restrictive goals. damaging oneself is nothing to a teenager, even less to a group of them. it must be that way because observing the adult world approaching like an iceberg at the horizon necessitates training in endurance. if life is passages of nothing and points of ecstacy the ‘one night only’ is a fully logical conclusion to the growing up trauma. the parent never understands the worth in ruining your life over one night only, because the parent is wrapped up in only days, forever laid bare in sunlight, stripped of secrets and counterproductivity. the junior recognises the power of counterproducing, of focusing the energy of a lifespan onto a select few early morning summer hours. the real damage is losing touch with damage. it will happen to most of us, to the best of us. at best we’ll, from the other side, subtly observe and approve the mayhem of youth.

XIII. play hard (all of the lights)



the junior-senior war plays out on account of the senior’s admiration of the junior’s recklessness. just as thomas sees his dad’s mercedes getting fished up out of their pool, and just as his college fund has been deducted from him in favor of repairing his parents’ still smoking house, a stroke of pride flashes in the face of his father. It is apparent that, even during his son’s prison sentence, the father, taken aback at the surprise of his son’s unexpected actions (he is heard early on in the film assuring his wife of their child’s nonexistent coolness), will paradoxically cherish the opposition to his own rules. using this moment as an analogy, žižek likens the father to the ultimate one; that is, god, who tells man to have no other god before him, implying that rules are off when he’s not around watching. the father authority seems to walk a fine line between permission and prohibition, one that doesn’t necessarily fluctuate at times but manages to caress and spank with the same hand movement. žižek continues on to point out the “quasi-sacred character of the party: when it runs out of control, it explodes into what one cannot but designate as a collective experience of the sacred, [...] a vulgar adolescent party [...] ‘intensified’ to a sacred orgy”. the party is at first glance, and probably described this way in the craigslist ads and mass texts that attracts the thousands of people attending, an event of beauty–strobe lights over toned and tanned topless teen girls, cocktails in red cups and fireworks. but as easy as it would be to accept this quick sales pitch of a description, the reality of any rave–the sticky skin, stained clothes, ruined shoes, aching feet, lips swollen from early morning stubble, lukewarm red bull–makes an acceptable one night only neither because those aspects nor the experience they form is particularly enjoyable. just like žižek construes of the event of falling in love with a person as an indifference towards physical attributes (you’re pretty because i love you), the one night only is fallen in love with and therefore ‘fucking shit up’ feels so good–the father constrained by his own regulations can do nothing but watch, despair and regard highly.

XIV. stay high (when love takes over)



love is boundless pain. it is surrendering the future, not to capital, but to the hands of beauty, of a perfectly entrancing person. if pain or stress triggers adrenaline, love must be a perpetual intoxication, as it is nothing but the promise of being cut off. you do not truly love a person who can not potentially destroy you. equally, a summer, or merely a summers night, that has not left your liver, your brain cells, your soul or your criminal record fleshed out and ripped apart on the highway, must have been of no importance. what kills you is your passion, and living passion-less is a life of bureaucracy. that is a death sentence, meaning suffering for a lifetime for the sake of suffering. suffering equally as long for love will go by quicker than batting your eyes at a bartender.

XV. one more time (beautiful exit)





endeavours to reach point X are attempts at forging three forms of bodily removal. the teen is pressured into their own body like fossils into oil and conducts any research possible into ways of releasing pressure. the party, while never engaging enough force to perform simultaneous removals, is a platform for removal of the necessary convergence. like oil extraction, the retaining of energy increases in difficulty–commence the fracking of the self. the framework for removal is ignited and cemented by music, as any proper ritual guidelines are. within this space it is possible to envision exit, transcendence and suicide, a triple vision to end dys-morphic dis-reality.

gnostic incels and disruption of linearity / unfuckable time, cucked history [09 Aug 2019|01:19pm]
"You know that among the young men the ones who turn out to be terrific talkers are the ones who get fucked a lot"
– Ekklesiazousai (113-114), Aristophanes

Sexuality will completely cease to exist. Love will cease to exist. There will no longer be any imprint of such concepts in the human psyche. It is the only way to purify the world
– My twisted world (136), Elliot Rodger

They say that the world was built for two, only worth living if somebody is loving you
– Video Games, Lana del Rey

In the Incel Manifesto, (now defunct) blogger lolfaggotry asserts the ways in which the ideology of involuntary celibacy, a conspiracy-concomitant online based movement merging monasticism, misogyny and magick, tackles questions of soul, body, will, time, virginity and religion. As made apparent in their way of navigating the complex, hyper-radical philosophy, the incel may be seen as a project of humanist annihilation in an attempt of reconnecting with nature and refresh one's perspective on sex, sexuality and societal factors forcing libidinal conformity. In an alignment of their worldview with gnostic concepts the incel might be about, as lolfaggotry vividly put it, “seeing the face of God in the cute waterpolo boy who nearly bullied you to suicide in 4th grade.” This notoriously murderous community is thus, in my eyes, one of few contemporary spaces available for male emotional processing, and should be closely observed as an example of psychic power being potently purposed.

At its core, incel identification bears the conviction of a societal hierarchy that is entailed by a genetically deterministic view of the foundation for human life. It is key to this movement to assert the ways in which one’s DNA determines traits like IQ, EQ and, perhaps most importantly, appearance. Borrowing ideas from phrenology, physiognomy and cephalometry, the incel focuses heavily on the chin bone to determine discrete categories of people, ranging on a scale of likelihood to have sex, and in extension a scale of societal worth.

The first of the main categories determined is, solipsistically, the Incel, deemed retarded, insufferable and inherently un-fuckable. Not rarely is the incel autistic, an aspie, or just borderline faggot, most likely they’re knee deep in depression and (homi-)suicidal plottings. Mid-scale falls the Normie, a neurotypical non-playable character complete with moderate intellect, skull shape and erotic capital, and arguably this group consists of the wider part of the population. The winners of the biological lottery are the Chads, alpha-beings with charisma and intelligence who are the root of all cuckoldry, and their female counterparts, the Stacys, embodiments of bimbofication and promiscuous inflators of the chad ego.



As the incels relation to gnosticism thus far might seem puzzling, one has to observe the historical ways in which their inherent anti-humanism correlates to ancient ideas of space, time and nature. Camille Paglia claims that western culture has been greatly shaped by the displaced despair experienced by men who are made into sexual outcasts, who suffer identity loss through their inherent incapability of identifying with the cyclical, non-climactic course of nature. As the woman and her inescapable corporeal emulation of natures constant reproduction seems to exist in an impenetrable mode of harmony, men are left to desperate attempts at establishing identity through inevitably evanescent moments of intercourse and eventually the violent imposition of linearity and historic climax. Paglia reminds us, “women accept limited knowledge as their natural condition”, recalling the implications of how the visual evidence of one’s genitalia shapes one’s thinking in adolescence. The male state becomes one of observing, categorizing, defining, linearizing and rationalising nature.

Now, I propose, these ways in which the incel undeniably observes and categorizes nature are not merely a reiteration of the male identity-affirming concentration and projection that Paglia speaks of, but a positioning of one’s respect towards nature, and God, by revealing masculine-social structuredness in an attempt to disrupt it. At this point I have to make it clear that the incel’s attitude is one of constant ambivalence, due to its intimacy with both meta-ironic chan-culture and anti-linearity. The incel itself is simultaneously postulated as genetically inferior and the revealer of truth, deterministically rejectable – unfairly treated, yet worth their treatment. The chad is painted as one of capacity and intelligence, but is, in attempts of gaining control, equally ridiculed and mocked by incels. Intelligence is constantly shifting, blame in flux. Through the instigation of its own existence, a process which importance I will emphasise, the incel presents us with the precarious state that the hierarchies that constitute society is doomed to exist in. The incel rejects this order, albeit in heavy fumes of irony and paradox, through acceptance of the workings of nature. The incel recognising and deliberately affirming their own place as inferior on the scale of human worth should not be seen as compliance with the performative state of said scale. Rather it is a statement on respect of nature, an affirmation of the incel ideology as an anti-humanist, a way of claiming natures total supremacy over any outcome by surrendering one’s agency, actually denying agency as such. Lolfaggotry posits a form of genuine incel as “a retreat into a meditative position, neutral like nature itself”, and by that implies an aspiration towards human reconciliation with the cosmos – or in a more concise and abrasive post: “You know why incels are fat? They are pregnant with the infinite.”



As mentioned, the state of incel is one that is entirely self-instigated, performed, if you will, through the repetition of corporeal signs – it is spoken into existence. In further examining this mode of creating one notices the historical connections through surveying possible metaphors – conjuring through ritual, manifestation through magick, the self fulfilling prophecy. To this vocabulary lolfaggotry also adds the Egregore, an ancient influential psychic entity comprised of collective thoughts. Its foundational self-perpetuating insertion into reality seems like an appropriate similitude to the apparition of new conditions of human existence, exemplified in the incel.

A similarly performative narrative of living is the one of the targeted individual, who perpetually asserts the persecution of government, or even higher authorities, towards themselves specifically, and trying to argue against their lived reality shows how truth isn’t experienced, but claimed. In a talk at new.New festival Daniel Keller puts the community of TI’s in a context of a conspiracy cosmology, a world where truth is lie and lie is truth, where chemtrails and colloidal silver reigns. He reminds us that any form of conspiracy inserted into rational discourse has impact, no matter if one buys it or not – language works as a powerful tool in spreading incurable memetic infections. This is where the power of the Egregore lies, as it consists of a network of ideas and irrationally choses which ones to embed into the canon of reality. What differs the TI from the incel is the level of surrender and paranoia. A genuine incel should, as mentioned, strive towards alignment with nature, harmony, meditation (heavily anti-western values), as opposed to the TI who buys gadgets for radiation protection under ceaseless (self-)surveillance. The TI fights foot and nail against the powers they have generated, the incel embeds surrender into the very core of their ideological project.

In VALIS Philip K Dick contends the phenomenal world as “a hypostasis of the information processed by the mind” – a revelation that enters him through a pink laser beam. He is made aware of the nonlinear nature of time, how the human brain through elimination tricks us into only perceiving one coherent lifetime at a time, while really we’re existing in a continuous present – at all points in history simultaneously. Each person carries the memories of the entire species, future and past, this theophany discloses. Linearity is forced onto humanity, by reptilians or the patriarchy – doesn’t matter, and what it forecloses is the disembodied experience of cosmic harmony; uninterrupted womanhood; a world ridden of Chads and incels. In this way the incel project and its anti-humanist goals of connecting with nature, putting God first, is dependent on feminization. A transgendering recourse to the cyclical must happen.



Beta- is the incel’s ultimate prefix, beta-male is their synonym and suggests the movements longing for sex-reassignment. In its immense insecurity the establishment of male identity must differentiate itself from the female, a performative superiority has to take place at all instances to combat the cosmic female sexuality. Does the incel not simply identify the male longing for the female position? In Is the Rectum a Grave? Leo Bersani points out the faggots inability “to refuse the suicidal ecstasy of being woman” when he finds himself with his legs in the air. The crime of homosexuality, often attributed to “the lifestyle”, Bersani argues lies in the promiscuous ways of gay socialising – promiscuity being cyclically grounded, the nonclimactic climax, a threat towards the phallic climax and linearity imposed on “history.” Again, womanhood is the final recourse for the anti-masculine body or any project of linear destabilization.

Historicizing the attribution of sex disparity to variation in vocal quality, Anne Carson recalls Herakles in finding himself “sobbing like a girl, [...] in pain [...] discovered a woman”. The masculine identity crisis distances itself from the female outcry, a natural response to child birth, to orgasm. As the man hears the woman burst out in a reaction intrinsic to her connectivity with nature’s cycle, nothing but confusion is triggered within him. In his alienation, man renders these natural outcries beastial, whereas their primal quality, in fact, would be useful to acknowledge as the channeling of emotion that he lacks so terribly. Let’s ponder the displacement this repulsion towards the feminine voice has undergone, from Sirens and Gorgons to gossipers and fangirls. The feminine vocal greatly feared by Odysseus is under no less dispute in current times. Hordes of squealing girls at the barricade of sold out pop gigs posited as hysterical, reality stars and housewives being questioned over their nasal enunciation rather than their wealth, Lana del Rey really “felt people weren't taking [her] very seriously, so [she] lowered [her] voice” – a gendered resonation under scrutiny. Gossiping, another word for a conversation men plainly are not engaging in. Might it be too close in proximity to man’s emotive embankments, discussing human relationships, wanting to share? Carson brings forth Plutarch and him retelling the story of a politician’s wife falling for her husband’s test of loyalty. After hearing, from her man, a story to good to not share, the woman’s gossiping with the maid consequently spreads the word to the entire town. A woman talking is a secret perpetually being revealed, and in letting her mouth fling open there’s the threat of her second mouth’s devastating exposure. Emitting noise, the woman’s mouth forces the inevitability of encountering, and the impossibility of conquering, understanding, the vagina onto the man – crisis, envy?

Recourse from repulsion is not to be found at the incel, who has taken on the task of carrying male crisis visibly into the world. The vagina, as much as it would seem to be the ultimate bringer of ecstasy to the incel, is more than frowned upon. Roastie is an epithet awarded to women who have, presumably as opposed to the incel, had sex. Etymologically it is based in the fictitious idea of the decay of the vagina initiated by a deflowering, a simple abbreviation of roast beef – which form is what the female genitals apparently will transmute into. The fear of even being reminded takes over. Logical short circuiting values of purity and dirt, desirability and repulsion, virginity and promiscuity, riddles the incel here. How can a woman be so disgusting, so amoral, to engage in intercourse, even more frightening – several times, and why can I not get laid? How dare she bring to mind this wretched cavity with her carefree blabber, and why is no-one listening to me?

If, as I am inclined to believe, the incel project is one of feminization, the woman – not the chad, not the normie – is the incel’s arch enemy. She’s all one aspires to be, as well as the abiding signifier that one will never be it. It is the panic of transgender. Displaced, then, onto the woman, from themself, the incel’s hatred of the woman in front of him is a result of her appearing as his malevolent mirroring. A woman talking points to the incel’s own inability of meditating on their cosmic relationship, and the promiscuous woman is a stream of salt painfully penetrating the open wound of the ideology at large – one’s unfuckable nature. The desires, as well, are projected onto the woman. Does the incel not place value in the sexual encounter he envies so deeply at the cost of his fundamental yearning for release from dysmorphia? Does he not see in the roastie that repulses him, to the degree that has driven boys to murder and suicide, the body of someone he believes he would have succeeded at life in embodying? The inhabitation of said body being faintly graspable at a point in history where performers of complex surgery and transplants, hormones deliberately or unknowingly ingested, are operating at a level that allows one to, convincingly or not, enter a hyper-virtual mode of utopian being.



reading list

Incel Manifesto. Lolfaggotry.
Free Women, Free Men: Sex, Gender, Feminism. Camille Paglia.
VALIS. Philip K. Dick.
From the Sovereign Individual to the Targeted Individual. Daniel Keller.
Is the Rectum a Grave? Leo Bersani.
Glass, Irony and God. Anne Carson.
My Twisted World. Elliot Rodger.

image #2 is “Spontaneous Catgirlification” by Adept Omega on Deviantart

[this unfinished text was written early 2019 as an attempt of entrypoints into incel discourse that werent initially dismissive, and as first draft for this blog. i see it as a complete dedication to entertaining the ideas of lolfaggotry, whose poetic treatment of incel culture in my opinion was one of few genuinely interesting endeavours toward a complex understanding of the phenomenon. the blog has since been purged multiple times, saved copies are available at https://web.archive.org/web/20160515040852/http://lolfaggotry.tumblr.com/]

errbody gettin crunk [07 Aug 2019|12:25am]
on this day 10 years ago, august 7th 2009, kesha (then still going by ke$ha) released her massively acclaimed single TiK ToK, which has since proven to be one of the most culturally significant pieces of music of the past decade. not only does it signify the essence of the party-hauntological paradigm to its fullest, but can also, in hindsight, rightfully claim its position as a highly accurate prophecy of the following cultural shifts of the 2010s. keshas debut album animal, featuring TiK ToK, literally inaugurated the new decade by hitting the shelves on january 1st of 2010. it eerily suggested the embedded irony of its own party saturated subject matter by making its presence known to a maximally hungover global population, who had been partying in the new decade. produced by dr luke, one of countless men publicly taken down by metoo, the song could further exemplify the type of inflammation that has come to be central in the representational identitarianism defining both political and cultural discourse of the latter half of this decade. also, hiding in plain sight, is the prophetic projection of TikTok, the social media music platform hybrid that is the most overt product of changes in the music industry symptomatic to technological and algorithmic acceleration. during the summer of 2010 a clip was uploaded to youtube, in which in-service israeli soldiers can be seen performing a choreographed dance to TiK ToK, fully armed in the streets of hebron, palestine. to mtv kesha described the viral IDF clip, as well as the song being featured on an episode of the simpsons, as “dreams”. “dj blow my speakers up” echoes with dissonance, despite the heavy autotuning, against the active war zone backdrop.



the decade as such is ephemeral, and usually not easily captured in a best of-list, but incidentally major cultural shifts instigated by economic, technological and sociological factors happened to take place just around the new decade. the leaks of snowden and manning, occupy wall street and the arab spring are all formative events affecting the general conception of modern society that took place within a period of time with 2010 as the middle point. while culture is a process impossible to construe as predetermined segments, a decade might actually be a reasonable amount of time to let pass in order to more concretely discern the significance of any event or phenomenon. it may generally be an appropriate distance for more contextualised analysis of the effects of innovations. if so, now would be a good time to revisit the artefacts of early 2010 pop culture to see in what ways it points to where we are now. not to set up a definitive narrative as an “explanation” to how weve ended up where we are, but to find points that can be analysed and connected to the contemporary, and our memories of the past.

in an essay titled another grey world mark fisher describes the 21st century domination of party pop music as “party-hauntological”. hauntology as such is a notion, attributed to derrida and written on extensively by fisher, which tries to articulate the ways in which life is haunted by the possible futures that never occurred. it can be argued that this is one of the major coping mechanism for a modern society on the brink of climate destruction, entrenched with anti-radical neoliberalism. what the party-hauntological is then, is when the canon of mainstream pop music is so dense with calls for throwing your hands in the air that it, despite its overt optimism, starts signaling melancholy. fisher references hugely popular tracks like j-los on the floor (2011) and the black eyed peas time (dirty bit) (2010) that both filled countless dancefloors but regardless, through their sampling of older dance tracks (lambada respectively ive had the time of my life), incorporated a paradoxical form of sadness. the actual presence of a fragment of the 80s might be a tool to insert the music into an alternative flow of time – in a hauntological manner; a way of resuscitating the hope for a future that in present time is long dead.

audio retouching, such as the autotune which the utilisation of is perfectly exemplified in TiK ToK, creates a sonic landscape that fisher describes as “a perverse yet ultra-banal normality, from which all flaws have been erased”. the cultural incentive to turn to party music as a proxy for any real life partying continues to escalate in a neo-liberal paradigm that favors free market excess but prohibits any hedonism in praxis. mourning the passing of past rave culture, among increasing regulation and surveillance, is sublimated into a performative cpr of the most streamlined version of the party. to bear living under conditions predicated by platform economic interests on the rise, one has to resort to entrancing oneself by simulating an imagined pre-reagan-thatcher optimism. no matter how little support it may actually give, or how connected it actually is to actual historical social conditions.




TiK ToK, i perceive, was one of the major final gasping breaths of the party-hauntological music paradigm, that soon were to be entirely engulfed by platform agendas. the party-hauntological was concerned with establishing an alternative time frame as relief from the despair and pressures of, among other factors, the integration of the online and the social. the following dominance can be attributed to a music consumption as one part of the desensitising-distracting algorithm driven model of profitable social media feeds. in this new form, music is consumed in snippets, often in company with viral videos, limited to the two minute 20 second limit of a twitter video, the one minute limit of instagram and tiktok, and the even shorter time frames of platforms such as snapchat. the success of lil nas xs old town road has much less to do with whatevers evoked by its nine inch nails sample, and more with its memetic compatibility with the platforms and a general current moral direction of media.

katy perrys last friday night (t.g.i.f.), is another 2010 track that in all its optimism (after a tirade of all the sick things one can recall from previous night the chorus ends by assuring us “this friday night, [we will] do it all again”) showcases the approach of its own obsolescence in plain sight; it really does signify the last friday night. the explosion of early 2010s party-hauntological music marked the end of the party as such and it seems like we now must endure an infinitely stretched out saturday morning hangover where one cant seem to do anything but scroll ones thumb up and down the phone – the festivals are shut down or gentrified, the clubs and raves likewise. by the time lorde sings shes “kind of over gettin told to throw [her] hands up in the air” in 2013, the paradigm shift is already taking place. lorde herself exemplifying the way in which the attention economy easily will disguise the convergence of viral events and its own economic interests as american dream-esque diy culture. in the music video for tennis court she is merely looking into the camera, only lip syncing the scattered “yeahs” throughout the song. it seems nearly avant garde at first glance, maximally effective at second. she sings “its a new art form showing people how little we care”.




today the resampling of old dance music (recently icona pop sang over a remade gypsy woman beat, french montana and city girls rapping over push the feeling on by nightcrawlers which previously also has been sampled by pitbull) seems to be less a depressed longing for the future and more a desensitised accumulation of content. its almost like the past is invoked by random now; the data that happened to be at hand was once a cultural artefact but is incorporated into the present music canon because it was convenient, lucrative and fit for the platform. so what is unfolding here, really? a critique of the state of the current, that is nostalgic for performative nostalgia? besides arguing for the determination of TiK ToK as the defining track of the decade, both in it being the epitome of party-hauntological music and a prognosis of the years it preceded, i would also emphasise the potential of the melancholic streak of its time, if one is looking for tools. a regression to the mindset of a time where a future that wasnt ecologically, politically and culturally disastrous could still be glimpsed at the horizon undoubtedly can, and maybe must, be bound to a depressive repetition – eventually escalating into suicidal tendencies. but the sampling that is emblematic of the party-hauntological may also be a resource towards building better alternatives. as news are consumed from minute to minute instead of week to week or day to day, the speed inhibits the stretches of time that have allowed past generations to cultivate culture and theories. the average lifespan of an internet meme is only a fraction of, say, even the relatively short fashion trends of the 00s, and infinitely shorter than the decade long cultural eras of the 20th century (look, here we are, still pretending that decades exist and havent been replaced by minute-short online time frames). when there is no longer space to let culture develop in slowness like before, turning toward both past and future to collect and assemble fragments that can piece together a culture that is comprehensible and beautiful because of its self aware contextualisation might be the only viable option. such structure, if executed with passion and esthetic engagement, ought to be a prolific one, of wide scopes, spectrums of emotion, full of enjoyable contradiction and inadvertence.




the beauty in TiK ToK lies in the perspective it is perceived from. that is, it now has 10 years of content between itself and us at this point in time, and its position in relation to the entirety of cultural production preceding and succeeding that position stands for its cultural value. as a piece of little over three minutes of recognisably structured 120 bpm pop, it now passes as a definitive representative of pop music around the switch of the decade as an experiment in pushing the threshold of unsophistication. as opposed to the current state of cultural production, in which artists entire lives and personal philosophies are picked apart in order to determine their value as creators based on their (most often optical) morality, a full on disintegration of complex thought was being explored (way before that same tactic would be politically mainstream). kesha and contemporaries of hers churned out music that spoke volumes of the crumbling state of societys stability by blatantly turning its face away from issues, ridiculing them, belittling them. seeing her, and others, attempting to adjust to the newfound value of morality and “taking a stand” during more recent years is uncanny. praying, the ballad released at the close of her contractual dispute with her producer-abuser dr luke, is abruptly disconnected from her earlier output. somewhere along the way of the legal process she dropped the $ from her mononym to symbolise a removal of “facade”. lady gaga transitioned from her space cowboy produced dancefloor anthems like just dance to jazz, high brow acting and abuse awareness projects. nicki minaj pushed the braindead aesthetic to its most unconventional and trollish with stupid hoe. but even as soon as she dropped anaconda in 2014 the (female) rap was now politicised, in a field where the necessity of any given song “empowering” the marginalised was growing more prominent. nicki has since been more concerned with figuring out the attention economy. one of the final death twitches (and perhaps one of the best products) of the hands up pop movement, we cant stop by miley cyrus, was met with suspicion already at its release in 2013 – narratives of cultural appropriation and privileges were already on the rise on social media at the time. miley has since had to (re)turn to country esthetics. as early as 2003 the black eyed peas released lets get retarded, now an obvious hyperstition for the a coming mechanism to cope with the state of the late 00s. they would eventually put out their essential two-part party music odyssey, starting in 2009 with the e.n.d. (short for the energy never dies) featuring indispensable songs like i gotta feeling and boom boom pow. as the beginning dropped one year later, one might wonder if they were not predicting the way their relevance would end at the instigation of a new technological and social paradigm.

when listening to TiK ToK in 2019 its 8-bit nostalgic carefreeness sounds like a trace of what music was before cancelling, before vine trimmed the general attention span to a matter of seconds, before the end of the world was being talked about as a process already well underway. this is what the distance that the past decade comprises charges an artwork with. it becomes crucial, when struck with the potency of well aged art, not to surrender to a nostalgic loop of failed resuscitation, but to incorporate the significance of that distance into conditioning art for a new decade. still, it is 10 years later this very distance that now renders the previously epic TiK ToK a song now on the verge of sublimity.

candid celibate [23 Jul 2019|12:04pm]
in one iteration of current online sociality there is a dissentive among two factions, the canceller and the cancelled, and it is nagging on the culture. it is like a battle of power, where one side is skilled in attack and one in defense, but the longer the conundrum remains unresolved the side of the attackers moral logic will increase in pervasiveness. on the sidelines, watching in confusion or blatantly keeping on with their own, is a vastness of normies. this battle could be construed as simulating another online based war of ideas, the one between ugly men and men who score pretty women. one wonders, is the canceller the incel, and the cancelled the chad, or vice versa?



differences between the canceller and the cancelled; the prior desires to be cancelled, the latter can never cancel. the canceller; a pessimist disguised as optimist, whose facade displays a variety of traits that are stylistically connected to virtue. playfulness, openness, acceptance, inclusion, trust, creativity. often these signifiers of good morality are performed so intensely they rapidly go transparent, accelerating beyond any threshold of believability. the canceller misses no chance to directly, or as indirectly as they can bear, signal to the world when they have taken stances for the greater good of all, hyperfocused on eliminating any potential semiotic or semantic toxicity from their vocabulary. they are apparently so fond of the world and its people that they will go to distant lengths to make sure everyone else will treat it in the exact same manner as themselves, peculiarly often in the name of anti-authoritarian causes. in short the canceller, like any person, sometimes dislikes things but, unlike many, is shocked to the highest degree when all other people does not actively reprehend said thing. yet, the canceller is simultaneously worked up in another manner. that is, they yearn for the position of the cancelled, the mark of successful transgression, the role of the pariah, in a desperate, almost horny way. the “oh boy i’ll sure be cancelled for saying this but…” hails in between giggles and the clicking of nervous nail biting. why is it so alluring? maybe the canceller wishes someone put as much care as they themselves have put into collecting tweets, screenshots, receipts; into compiling websites and writing open letters; into blocking and muting and, not stopping there, making absolute sure that others do the same – into caring about them. are these people dedicating their lives to combing for tiny signals of amorality maybe yearning for the very attention they force themselves to navigate the world with?

the cancelled; an optimist disguised as pessimist. as in not exactly over enthusiastic towards every little flaccid attempt at conjuring an illusion of progress, and in a loosening up of moral, even just slightly. the intrinsic playfulness of a rude and curse ridden group jargon. the trust in people, and their capacity to balance and decide. the cancelled can never cancel, only look away, pause the youtube video, unfollow the account, and think to themself; and if other people want to, they can too. what else is implied in that, if not trust, meaning optimism. the cancelled moves on, thinks and rethinks, accepts, changes direction, regresses; all in their own pace, it is the unbotheredness of faith in the world.



the moralist and the esthete; one reads the artwork according to a set of guidelines, perhaps even rules, the other just feels it, walks past the stuff that refuses to engage. this is not to say one is to prefer, perhaps the moral direction an artwork takes actually matters the most, carries the heaviest implication of value, perhaps the affective state it triggers, perhaps if it succeeds doing humor, perhaps if its sexy enough we should deem it good. it is always decision, and not necessarily the same one every time. its all subjectivity, moral is subjectivity. nonetheless, the decision for moral good is tricky to deploy in praxis. it is seen to necessitate certain material effects, to instigate processes that make actual life actually better, a massive undertaking that doesnt fit nicely in an art world that comprises a million agendas that stretch in a million directions. it is a risky endeavour to advocate for the greater good, one is so often disrupted by nature and everyday life, carefreeness and joy.

the incel relentlessly weaponises against the chad who, with his dick up some sexy chicks pussy, if not completely oblivious to the attacks at least remain highly unconcerned. the cancelled will, if their predator has devoted enough time to their project, sometimes notice material consequences as result of their cancelling – an employer googled you and found some troubling “information”, your pictures are pushed to the top of google results alongside allegations, sometimes your family and even friends will be put under fire, people you were close to might in moments of confusion be coerced into announce their distancing from you. the cancelled, while of course untenably having to suffer the outcomes of this, will remain highly unconcerned. the dick of the cancelled is their mind, and the hot pussy it is banging is a multiplicity of ideas, a space of multitudes for the mind to exist in. it is the esthetes space, meaning the space of pleasure.

while the incel forms his ideology around a biological determinism, where nose shapes and jaw angles are main factors in forcing the incel into his sexual poverty, there is vocally less weight put on genetics in the arguments of the canceller. they, instead, often resort to terms like safety and inclusion, relying on presumptions of the morally good in coercive combat towards structural injustices. but as cancelling exceedingly is done in the name of social justice, meaning an incorporation of marginalised identities into e.g. circles of creative production, in a world where the marginalisation structurally is based on genetic differences only, it is evidently a rhetoric that utilises genetic dispositions at the core of its argument, while hiding this core by attributing it to the structures and the structures only. the perpetuation of identities tied to genetics is performed honestly by the incel, and dishonestly by the canceller, who continues objecting to a system by its own terms.



so the canceller asserts their right to vigilantism, and puts down great effort to proclaim and sustain their moralities. while the cancelled usually sticks to spending their time creating and consuming art, writing texts, developing critical or political or sexual and esthetical thoughts, the canceller puts all of these processes to a halt in order to critique any minute flaws in the progressions of the cancelled. paradoxically the canceller, being the most vocal proponent of a flourishing creative and intellectual scene, contributes the least to it, if not actively sterilising it. just like the incel projecting his unrequited lust onto the chad, in hopes of ever being, even for just a moment, treated with the same sexual passion, the cancelled resuscitates the medieval thingstead with an unbelievable force, and they wish so badly someone would do the same for them.

for the one who does not care about preserving and entertaining heterogeneous culture, the cancellation must be welcomed; embrace it! cancel what scares you, cancel what excites you! prove youre in it til the end by cancelling the ones you love the most! for the rest, remain unbothered and carry on with your practices. in this setup i am likely to be one of the normies, as i combine the disinterest in the ideological coerciveness of the canceller with an incentive enough to write a thousand words on the matter. and as esthetically compelling chad is, i have the weakest spot for incels in my heart, and i will in the name of coherence try my best to feel likewise for the canceller too.

notes on sisterhood [13 May 2019|05:36pm]
james charles apologists, do rejoice. christmas time for the platform sociality thirsty is upon. it has arrived to illuminate the limits of gayness, conservatively and rightfully so. do not dwell on the ‘receipts’–what are the ethics of letting your friend behave allegedly abusive and erratic and not actively distancing yourself from them until they intervene in your business, tati?–try not to get stuck there. if gay marriage is an institution that optically works against homophobia but at its kernel is a mere tool for economic and social normativising, the james-gate is a trojan horse in the reverse way. at first glance a personal dispute of business and friendship, necessitated publicly for clarity, but carrying in its belly a homophobia. a phobia in its definitive sense, a fear of gayness, a fear of the disruptions and redefinitions that comes with being gay. a phobia that’s crucial for the continuing survival of both society and whatever, if anything, is left of the queer ‘community’.

a segregation of ‘issues’ has taken place within james-gate. quickly, the woke and the alt-woke has sprung to analysis, exposing the corporate mechanisms of tati’s vitamin supplement business as the only instigator of her sudden outspokenness. she’s critiqued of looking past james’ crudeness and alleged sexual manipulations for years, not bringing issues to light before her brand is personally hurt. i would rather argue that not ‘exposing’ private sexual matters of a man who turned eighteen only a couple years ago is a well advised move inhibiting homophobic optics. when revealing this information at this point, when the story involves more complex details, it is easy to direct the onlookers gaze to what is currently in vogue caring about; influencers are bad, corporations are bad, derp. i say we should refocus on what matters here, what’s been concealed by people terrified to dub all gays predators; the heteromasculine fear of being turned into an (gay) object of desire.

not in the slightest bit is the concern raised, when it is made known that james charles has ‘preyed’ on straight men on instagram, talked about how nobody’s a hundred percent straight, rambled on about cock sucking and sexy waiters at dinner parties, because an alarming, systematic situation is taking place. the panic has been induced not by the very real (and frankly embarrassing) misuse of power perpetuated by james, but by the sexual nature of the sexual encounters. the word cock in the wrong setting is the key trigger here. we have a boy who were barely born in the previous millenia who’s consumed an amount of vulgar drag race seasons and gen z memes, who just has too much money and face recognition (perhaps also too much self doubt and shame) to ever be placed in the contexts he seems to have been made for. decadent sex dungeons and sheltered alleyways have been claimed gay spaces because they are equally hidden and exposed. they tease the outside world, lets a sliver of red light out on the street each time a nervous twink first timer slips in and sweaty ‘working late’ daddy sneaks out, but not more. there’s no time for such activities in the schedule of an instagram star. james is actually quite brave, probably mostly dumb, to let his gay indecencies seep out, but conclusively it does not help queers the slightest.

as much as normal people depends on a small group of freaks to cement what normality is and isn’t, being queer is an existence depending on a transgressivity that is about to be fully inhibited by ‘pinkwashing’ and similar practices. this is why lgbt advocating is a self destructive method, in order to make gay existence ‘safe’ it seeks to diminish gayness entirely. in a world where everyone’s trans there’s no longer high suicide rates among trans women. being queer is struggle, illness, death as much as freedom, emancipation, comfort. being queer in the era of drag race seems to become a play of simplifying signifiers and a cementing of cheap queer theory and centrist heterosexual values as a community goal image. if queerness is disavowing one’s future it is also disavowing one as influencer. the mainstreaming of the dungeon is what leads to its gentrifying closure. the 16 million subscriber faggot can not help the community in any way but one–bring back my… oppressors.

the kind of homophobia tati displays, the one that rejects vulgar jokes and with fear thinks of shit on the dick, have before unified gays. it is the schism wide enough to keep both the normal and the abnormal healthy and thriving in whatever way each community decides to attribute those words. this is the important takeaway. not the abuse of power comes as no surprise platitude, over and over that concern proves to be a purely performative one. not the cries of ‘is profit more important than abuse!?’, remarks that has completely missed to think twice about whether they’re afraid of all sexual encounter– or just gay one’s.

it is becoming increasingly difficult to discern the queers among the masses, the fluoride gazes.


mulholland drive (2002)

open the noise of trans [02 Apr 2019|01:10pm]


in their coverage of amazon’s new trans alexa out.com are seemingly disappointed in the new queer spokespersons lack of answers to questions about drag race or timothy chalamet, luckily they did not forget to emphasize the actors fondness for oral sex or his versatility in gay sex positioning.

pinknews.co.uk clarifies how trans alexa will speak about his transition and (most importantly?) suicide attempt and eventually direct the listener to sign a change.org petition that calls for some kind of contemplation of the human rights act, or something. at the time of posting pinknews noted the sparse 47 signatures, but now, three days later, the number has skyrocketed to almost 350. when i scroll down the recommended article is a cockyboys actor talking about sucking off his dad at the age of eight.

on them.us there is a call for ‘trans mediocrity’ on tv pointing to the way trans characters never appear on screen if they aren’t in some way required to be trans. this kind of rhetoric of representation that ought to strip identity from character clashes a tiny bit with a contemporary queerness of constant affirmative identification. on the them.us front page i’m told about how queer-affirmative therapist will change my life and how broad city has woven queerness into its fabric.

‘the community’ has viciously been pushing for institutional and corporate representation and reform for years now, which is why the disappointment in the corporations that cleverly applies those methods for marketing purposes baffles at this point. none is to blame for campaigns like amazon’s but the gays who seems to have thought you could intertwine sexual politics with capital driven institutions without ending up with death by opportunism. the victim of this murder is the name of queer liberation. not because what died was the struggle that will free us, that struggle is inherently unnameable and is hopefully brewing under the corpses of deliveroo pride floats and pronoun rounds, but due to the majority of ‘queers’ (and to be fair, this label becomes decreasingly legitimate for each pride month that passes) being won over by a neo-liberalism that flattens them into nothingness. but no, of course there should be more trans women in hollywood – the most safe and pleasant working place on earth as we've learned from the likes of metoo.

lucky for amazon copywriters transgender day of visibility is aligned close enough in proximity to april 1st for attempts at discourse to slightly pass as jokes themselves – no, obviously they would persevere at any time of the year, as they will persevere through perpetuating the most vile dehumanizing and mistreatment of workers too.

whatever feels good––– [26 Mar 2019|02:01pm]
"Old soul, waiting my turn, I know a few things but I’ve still got a lot to learn.”
– Slow burn (2018), Kacey Musgraves

Sonic catharsis exposes the soul as an accumulation of information, a span of knowledge with its fangs deep in its own tail. In The Divine Invasion Philip K. Dick elaborates his matrixing of the perceptible world in an inter-dimensional drama of holy pregnancy and cryonic time travel. Main character Herb Asher does not realise he’s living as a hallucinated experience until music from a nearby transistor radio bleeds into the block his body’s been frozen in, a moment in which he’s alerted to the precarity of any and all objectiveness. When the strings are transmitted into the world he’s inhabiting they appear only to him, like a song stuck in one’s head, confirming the state of dream the past years of his life has been in.

On the day of Dolores O’Riordan’s death youtube user Cecil Robert uploads The Cranberries- Linger (playing from another room) as a memorial gesture. The meme of equalizing songs into new but familiar ambiences points to the ways in which the phenomenal understanding of art might be the heaviest contextual factor in putting into motion the informational constituents of one as human being. It’s 3 am, you're rolling through the streets with your windows down. there, you see a strange stripclub playing lana del rey tunes... so you stop the car, windows still open, to listen. writes youtube user mabel in the description of their 80 minute video lana del rey playing at a stripclub. The low pass knob on the EQ becomes a tool for rendering what has, in the case of Lana, been described as a power to trigger nostalgia over memories one doesn’t even possess, down to an even more encompassing reality shift.

In the teen room, one is no longer lingering in times one did never have but in an experience as close to objectively real as it gets – the sound waves break through the cryonic plaster and, much like for Herb Asher, forces you to recollect; I am here, but I am also somewhere else. As much as I am sitting in my bed and not in a pickup truck on a dimly lit backstreet, I am opened up to the speculative critique of that fact. A rupturing of an otherwise solid perceptive linearity takes place in the simple possibility of a DIY memory, a history that is built from whatever one finds lying around. This minuscule technical adjustment done to a track before playing it out loud enables a lingering of temporalities that, instead of stacking horizontally, layer on top of each other and play out over and over again simultaneously.

Musics pseudo-primality, tying the ritual nature of being animal to the spiritual undertakings that comprise humankind, triggers cracking of the weak societal membrane that encapsulates our construing of time. It does not necessarily speak clearly, rather it whispers in tongues – and might this be why we hear a song with our eardrum but listen with our entire body? Why movement turned out to be the ultimate way to process music in real time? Old soul as in the core of one’s being as in irreplaceable for the subject as we interpret it to further exist, waiting its turn due to the lack of options one has while suspended in time.

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