Sunday, 19 October 2014

We are Anti-everything, We are Anti--

The fetishisation of weakness turns a nihilist theology. Where the great individual halted Nietzsche and returned him to the Christianity he had turned against, all that remains is the great abstraction. All flow into the wandering borders of a land wishing for the return of great borders, but the tyranny of walls is gone - the crusading journey of a fixed place rests as the temple, beyond its being rebuilt. Judaism seeks to become all negation and retain itself within the depth of abstraction. It seeks to corrupt all terrorising borders outside of itself. It seeks to create a negative sanctity of itself from which it might better survive. And all who take up its curse are the Antijew, a collective body of death which can only become death.

Do not open. Only death resides within. But there is nowheres else to go. Won't you be so welcoming?

This false peace become war is so long before us. So long before the wandering tyranny of modernity in its dystopian syntax. The cryptography which does not know of which theology it came. It seeks an identity, its foreign G-d spoken now whole again. The lost identity is a deepened identity as it becomes automatic abstraction, the automatic Jew. We are within the eschaton, but no one knows whose abstraction has captured His identity.

There are no Christians, no Muslims, no Jews. Only their corrupted abstraction within an atheist eschatology. There is only Antim-n.

The Antijew rises because he cannot see anything before his curse. In a monistic world there is nothing else but the origins of The One. All returns are a return to its sacred hold. The Jew is the curse because he was the first man. So it seems to Him with a God no longer. The Jewish man exists in an empty space between monotheism, polytheism, henotheism. And so thusly he is a monotheistic One, an other of monotheism, the negative monotheism for all others to destroy. The Antijew, he goes one G-d further.

Antisemitism is the atheism of a world demanding a God, but lost to His identity. Both of the Jews and their enemies. Both groups are anti-semitic in their own way. One because they demand an end to the other. The other because they demand an end to The One. And so are The One. The Jewish politic demands antisemitism as an automatic process in its exclusion of all other semitic peoples. And at once they demand their monopolisation of peace through G-d's annihilation.

All that remains outside of the temple is not of G-d. All that is outside of the Holy City is to be the inside of G-d. It shall burn itself out. Exterminate as our borders.

They speak of death as a great relief, as G-d in itself. And so they speak as the victims even in their acts of violence. Their acts of violence are their own harm. They destroy a world and they are the victims because only they are the chosen ones worthy of G-d's love.

This is the story of Job, a schizophrenic Crime and Punishment before Crime and Punishment. Job kills and it becomes his own self-torture, his wandering escape of what circumstance forced him into. And his self-torture within the war against people becomes God. The crime of violence becomes God of itself, becomes G-d, as to survive violence is a greater crime even than to be its victim. Even as its perpetrator.

The Jews were the first doubled people, lost in the abstraction of history and coursed through the violence of a lost world. No doubt they truly were a holy people. They had been banished, their city destroyed; or at least its significant parts. They could never again mention their G-d as such an utterance would bring a return of their destruction. This self-doubling forced their society as a negative people - a negative God watched over them. And so it was that their violence was not their own. It was only the necessity of not uttering G-d's name, of not bringing about His destruction, and so theirs.

A dead God is coursed through the veins of a living G-d. The sorrow over His passivity now only a curse of violence. And so violence the blessing of a new form of passivity. The triumph over violence becomes the automatic inclusion of passivity, the godform of a city without need of violence - beyond the borders outside of a world lost to the world. In the world but not of it. Of its processes but not in them. Out of the territory but not in its own. An impossibilised sanctioning and cordoning off of G-d. A sectioning off of the world so he might never be named again.

Into the smallest place. Out of the last place. An eschatology without the world ever ending.

This is our world. Its impossibly violent peace. Even when it is antisemitic it is thoroughly Jewish. It is written in the code. In its toroidal return building unto death.

That which says it does not build so builds its eternised enemy within. Slaves of information in the abstraction of time. Within the depth of communisation rests the dead m-n as perfection of both machine and species. He is the deep eschatology of automatic materialism. He is the cursed return of the blessed golem who grows in his self-destruction. He is m-n and antim-n at once.

Nietzsche did not expect to renounce himself through the Antichrist into a deepened Christianity. Nor do antisemites expect to deepen the mode of automatic semitism within the Antijew. But Jewish opposition is written into the depths of its code, 'If you seek to destroy us you shall only succeed in eternising the Holy City.'

Violence begets peace. War begets eternal armistice. This is one of the most important lessons of our time as all organisations become for the Antijew, or for the Antijew's organisation.

And don't be fooled by all the corpses who demand such words be buried in the democratic fires before fires. All organisations are now anti-Jewish, even the Jewish ones. The purpose of this inquiry is to oppose Jewish politics along with its civilised political opposition, the whole of the eschatological triadic cult, and the society of the death fetish. Without asking the questions posed in this writing the automatic sacrifice of humans shall but continue.

In short, the triad of machinic being courses itself along the history of the triads of G-d's identity. It is this automatic negation of which we seek an end, the betrayal of deep abstraction and its cult of followers. How do we oppose the Jew without opposing him? How do we destroy the golem formed by his ideology without destroying the man inside?

Least of all, a human question not a Jewish question. The Jewish people find themselves at the center of questioning as they appear as the first man. And so our questioning must work around that, and through it. What was man and antiman before the Jew became icon of both sides of the species? What is the antiman of Judaism? What is the man of antisemitism? What is the guilt and innocence of fascism before fascism? And so what is democracy's recourse? What is the active dejewification within the passive trial of strengthening an identifiably Jewish world? What is the bureaucracy without walls? What is the war trial within eternal peace? What is the peace trial within eternal war? What is the impossible question which does not create our own self-trial of impossibilisation?

Again, not a Jewish question - a question of man separated into the purity of isolation and death.

Nihilist drones. Nihilist rotes. Nihilist ---.

In the Society of Yaga Baba...

It is all now normal. Putin laughs pleasantly at the mechanical noise of the avant-garde, 'A phase we had gone through - and so now have returned to being human.' Malevich's paintings are detourned as advertisements in Sochi.

Clumsy if human. Human if clumsy.

So pleasantly the advertising tricks of the proletarians advanced their commodities before the revolution. Unironically, unlike the situationists whose irony was buried in plain sight. Forty years before them even, the futurist proletarians before their proletarian future had destabilised the commodity - reabstracted the proletarian within its movement. One can imagine the situationists as a long, drawn-out, failed gag, condensed as: 'Study for curtains for the meeting room of the Committee to Abolish Employment'.

An ironic bureaucracy of freedom, the Western gardes have always sought that illicit freedom before freedom. Anxiously the outside is stolen back through time. Only a bourgeois might be a proper proletarian, a deabstracted Oblomov outside of his homeland. In the society of automatic negation the Russians are backward people so our people must become backward Russians. Only a bourgeois might drop out properly and wait for the revolution. We will become an avant-garde without proletarian cuntishness; nor Russian either.

The only black square in Western opposition is the deep abstraction of its subversively nationalist glaucoma. The biology of theft is the property of the intellect.

Beyond art, the icon corner sits beneath the paving stones, an Oblomovatist just needing to be roused, awakened, brought his newfangled tea. The air is just outside those walls. Get up, you cunt! Would not you want exclusion from being suspect!? You are a demon, possessed! You are a foundation, now become it!

The contagion of laziness will overtake the proletariat once they realise what bourgeois everyday life is really like. Splendid. Sex as common as stone. Otherwise oblomovitis is but a wasted avec-garde of boredom, a pure feeling of the beach wasted because we weren't bourgeois enough.

Christ like abstract stones, a knife turning but too abstracted to know what is in the image. My world, your way. But only if the coding is correct.

What biology were the situationists feeding on? This is the question within the injection points of the nihilist situationist plastic journals. Rescripted between moderation duties.

Do not become rotten. You are not to become the chair and wait out the revolution. You are to become the space between the ass and the chair. A situationist ass at that! You will become pure duty of revolution.

Now, do not replaster the Oblomovatist's walls. His waiting is rotten. Become his structure.

In the parable of the backward oblomovatist all activity is backwards. Outside of his homeland every abstract Oblomov does nothing so as to feed into his neurosis of active export. Through exponential increase of leisure nothing is produced but the most invisible statues. The colour of your skin the automatic pins, commemorating Stakhanov

Elsewhere they begin to don masks so as to breathe in their leisure.

Outside of the centers of production the matrix of valorisation centers recode the incoming methodology of numbers. Stak-anov begets Obl-mov. Exponential increase. O-l-m-v begets -t-k-a-o-. Increase exponential.
The chair that waited for revolution, and its fabled bobblehead-hero Oblomovist recoded for a deproductive world, welcomes you. Kisses you through the encoding walls. Musical geometry, just sit down at the right time. The non-situation is yours for the undoing.

Nihilist remodernism, clean lines, aseptic geometry. Seen, it is in you.

You will capitulate. The beach.

Putin's laugh resounds. The tyranny of it is that his democracy is of both past and future. More than your world wherein the stones have been forced as transfusion. And the Western world will simply thieve of it, so as to charm your anxiety.

The theft of intellect is the property of biology. We are the avec-garde of it.

Sunday, 17 August 2014

Free --- or Punch ---?

The digital communisationists have entered the realism of eternal mobilisation. Beyond the cult of death is the abstract blocing up of the post-post-militant form. The irony of sub-leninist-marxists is that they have not attacked banks enough. To really attack banks you must go beyond breaking windows into 'what is the new windows?' Camp in the most absurd location, play the game beyond the game, subsume all error.

Get a cheap kill. One more stepping stone towards the top of the Communisation Leaderboards.

There is no game. There is no windows. There is no error.

There is only -.

The tactics are fine. You need to adapt.

What is the new paganism? they said. Ha, a shotgun, a flashlight, and an ---, I said. Here is how to unlock them -----...

We are not going to war 2.0. We have gone beyond experimentation with war. The map packs just aren't that good. My psychogeographic conversions of the digital pagans have reached an all-time low k/d ratio. We have already upgraded our windows. We have become the windows beyond windows. We no longer even need maps for eternal psychogeography. We have gone beyond experimentation with windows - we are the glass-cutters of total immobilisation. But don't call it OP. You need 15 kills for an EMP. We do it in zero. We have gone beyond experimentation with k/d r statpadding. We have gone beyond boosting communisation within the hacked lobbies of LibCom. You're just not that good, kid. Get good. Get ble-sed.

Just don't get -----.

We are the fibers returned beneath the kristallnacht beach: blessed cobbled cursed stones: abstract mobilisation v.9 ---. This is better than the pay-to-win guns. This is better than going beyond experimentation with hipster loadouts. Why I don't attack banks: we are now beyond experimentation beyond the bank beyond value in the fictitious glitch of Mt. Gox. Beyond Go-.

You will not go beyond our experimentation with communisation. What is the new attacking of banks? What is the new to become worthy of it? What is the new ---? What is the new...
There is no new. We have gone beyond experimentation with ---. We are the essential -.

Sunday, 8 June 2014

Automatic Critique of the Subject We Don’t Know When We Arrive: Or Lunacy Equivalent Generalised

World subjectivity is in the arms of its others. The world, no matter how materially determined, still selects itself negatively in differentiation from its other forms. Modernity as nationalism, science, and capital self-determines in itself just as it other-determines of itself; as in the determinate progression out of the historical movement of abstractions stemming from the classical era in its philosophy, dual sacrifice, and religious wars. There is a moment of quality differentiation within world selection where quantity becomes quality, where the quantified being of a world becomes beyond itself, becomes so over-determining that it must seep out into its other. The other is lost, and so must be returned, self-created. In our time we call this generalised lunacy, although it may be better stated as the world lost from its subjectivity born into its subjects within a general equivalent of lunacy. We see in this separation the story of the Tower of Babel, a story which has returned in our time in differentiating forms.
As everything becomes its opposite, so too must this story of Babel. The inversion occurs in that the story is no longer a scattering of people inwards to the over-determinate moment that their confused communication must be overtaken by the Grace of God, who then scatters the people about the earth. Instead the story goes that the self is scattered inward and its own communication scatters God about the earth and the self returns abstractly, in the Grace of him or her. The automatic subject returns. What is interesting in this retelling is that what the philosophers could not accomplish in their investigations of being within nothingness, Beckett (and perhaps others) did in his eternal rewriting of the line, “The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.” An ambiguous and infinite ending to a Poe story. Are the enemies the liberators? Were they the enemies and liberators all along? Does the Inquisition go on? There is no end. When everyone else wrote the nothingness of being in itself, Beckett wrote the being in nothingness, for itself, of itself, ill itself. Nothingness of being outside of itself. The Inquisition went on, eternally returning in itself, but our being did not eternally return into nothingness. Subjectivity became something else so as to escape itself. It self-abstracted against its own automation within itself. Subjectivity returned, and then being.
This was in total contradiction to what all of the philosophers were attempting at the time. How fitting then that the dominant subjectivity of our time becomes the automatic abstraction of Beckett fictions (what we might call ill seen ill said fictitious capital): minimalist versions of objects within Beckett, the misunderstandings and wrong readings, and particularly the unfinished parts themselves self-abstracting. This occurs within the void of post-capitalism, a period in which we do not know our being, in which lunacy is the only general equivalent, and in which we do not know if we are in the hands of capital or its enemies - the capital or its enemies. We do not know if we are in a known totalitarianism, or an unknown revolution. Is the French Revolution just a continuation of the Spanish Inquisition within a world unknown to its own subjectivity? Is the automatic revolution of lunacy simply a continuation of the French Revolution? We do not know. We are waiting for an arrival. Does the subject come? We do not know. We are waiting. And all the while when avant-garde playwrights began to write plays within plays, plays completely determined by minor characters from the past, we ourselves, who ignored Beckett’s important work, became the rewriting of plays within plays. We began, we became automatic writing of the important work, just as we thought we were thinking of the famous play. And we are still waiting.
And how fitting it is that today when the communist is debating the nothingness of revolution, the impossibility of a subject, and the opiate being of revolution, the revolutionary subject returns - a revolutionary subject who does not know, a subject masked and himself or herself abstracted, not knowing if he is a liberator or in the hands of the next Inquisition. The abstract subject is both asemic being of the autorevolution and object of its totalitarian world. I am my tormenter, you decide, now on.The 5th of Novemeber will be every day. You are my tormenter, I decide, nohow on. It is every day, as the first automatic subject did not know whether he wanted to be in the hands of British Liberation or in the arms of the Spanish Inquisition. Revolution is on and nohow on. We are tied beneath a pendulum, to what used to be a wheel of fortune, and we do not know if we are in the arms of the liberation of capital or the hands of the inquisition of tomorrow.
How fitting it is as well then, that the great art of our time seeks the asemic destruction of the abstract mask, a mask for so long distorting the face of an automatic subject lost in its own torture. Of arms and hands we do not know. And we do not know if he will arrive. And he perhaps already arrived before we were waiting. It will go on, it can’t go on. And our waiting was itself the arrival. But we were not us. We were outside of ourselves. We went on without that which could not go on. Without being its on. And our on will, can’t will if it is no longer in or of or for or ill. It is ill of on. And then nohow on. And ill nohow on. And ill in on. Ill for on. Until nohow ill. To be in or to be of or or…

Sunday, 23 February 2014

The Thousandth Manifesto of UltraNihilist HyperCommunist VirtuaFighters: Or, the Deabstracting Bioguide to Abstract Martyrdom and Fate Recuperation, All Wrapped Up in One or Two or Three or More Quilts of Your Own Well Deserved Automation

The Thousandth Manifesto of UltraNihilist HyperCommunist VirtuaFighters: Or, the Deabstracting Bioguide to Abstract Martyrdom and Fate Recuperation, All Wrapped Up in One or Two or Three or More Quilts of Your Own Well Deserved Automation
By Second-Cousin Twice-Removed Dupont

1. It is not nihilist enough.
2. It is not communist enough.
3. It is not biodemocratic enough.
4. Only YOU can prevent Forest Kristallnachtery!
5. It is not Zizek enough.
6. It is not black swan enough.
7. It is not ultraconservative thinktank enough.
7. It is not ----- enough.
8. It is not The One Well-Doer enough!
9. Do nothing, certainly, but make sure you due nothing more so that it is both enough and not enough. Only Lord Ideoalgod knows when it is enough, and until we are the last racket it is not enough.
10. It is not not-fascist enough.
11. It is not anti-German enough.
12. It is not iron irony enough.
13. It is not irony iron enough.
13. It is not iron cross rubber reeducation enough.
14. It is not My House My Rules Enough.
15. Never Forget that we Never Forget. (And never forgetting is never enough.)
16. It is not anti-racket enough.
17. It is not LibCom enough.
18. It is not generalised lunacy enough.
19. It is not domestication-shaming enough.
20. Never forget that we are the abstract shock troops of biopostbiomenshevism! We forget, but that is not enough.
21. It is not G-d enough.
22. It is not Le-in enough!
23. It is not B-o enough.
24. Never forget that I am the walrus. And that sort of enough is not nihilist enough.
25. It is not Never Forget enough.
26. It is not postwar abstract peace enough.
27. It is not Beautiful Democracy enough.
28. Never forget that a marxist is a ---x---.
29. Never forget that we are beyond critique because we collect the good ---x--- journals.
30. Never forget that we are anti-racket because we read aristotelian-aristotlelian-postantipostmarxist-platonic-anti-platonic readings of Plato, so where do you even get your ideas anyway?
31. It is not ironic bowling tshirt cultural marxism enough. Go to a better racketshop nub.
32. It is not anti-anti-everything enough.
33. It is not google-bot-singularity before the singularity enough.
33. It is not soft-ice-cream-materialism enough.
34. Never forget that our ---x--- books are haute couture and yours are not blessed by ---.
35. It is not cursed enough.
36. It is not blessed enough.
37. It is not eternising enough.
38. It is not objectivising enough.
39. When you do nothing ensure that it is done with positivism. Otherwise it is false-positive-negatively not enough.
40. It is not mechanistic enough.
41. It is not autohegelian enough.
42. It is not whisper-down-the-lane-materialist enough.
43. Who attacked that bank? That is enough.
44. What are you, a fascist? Again, that is not enough.
45. It is not fascist-shaming enough.
45. It is not anti-mask enough. Nor is it anti-masked enough.
46. It is not anti-Islam enough.
47. It is not pro-Zionism enough.
48. Remember that anything other than capital is violence but not enough. Only the wooden bridge of utter bullshit enoughness can ever be enough.
49. It is not manifest destiny enough.
50. It is not calvinist enough.
51. It is not biocalvinist enough.
52. It is not anti-death-cult enough.
53. It is not pro-death-cult enough.
54. Remember that we are the poetic marxists of ultra-menshevism. And in no way is anti-imperialism or imperialism enough.
55. It is not autokafkaesque enough.
56. It is not deepened-mode-of-being-of-capital enough.
57. It is not kristallnacht-shaming enough.
58. It is not neofreudian enough.
59. It is not not going to war enough.
60. Check in and perhaps you too can scour the web for our anti-racket thinktank. Imagine the castle, but without the village, and obviously the castle's not existing is not enough.
61. Just contact MK Ultra. Just remember that this is the last place, and for us that is not enough.
62. It is not Number 6 enough.
63. It is not Number 1 enough.
64. It is not Patrick McGoohan Bobbleheady enough.
65. Are you now or have you ever been thinking about attacking banks? Do not think that this is enough. Unthink your enough, only attack your not enough.
66. It is not abstract crossdressing enough.
67. It is not accelerationist enough.
68. It is not decelerationist enough.
69. It is not eternal objectivity of the self enough.
69. It is not fetishised domesticity enough.
70. It is not Weil is Communism Discuss enough.
71. Did you know that people who attack banks are parasites? And yet that is not enough?
72. Did you know that anarchists are just idiots in idiot-mourning? And still more-than-enough not enough?
73. Did you know that loose lips sink ships and that loose encryps save hips? Anti-racket deencryps are for now the only enough Commuracket flips.
74. It is not biofucking the substructure enough.
75. It is not subfucking the biobase enough.
76. It is not superstructuring the biofuckery enough.
77. Only in the total institution does the black square make sense. And even then, neither is enough.
78. It is not automatic subject enough.
79. It is not apophatic subject enough.
80. It is not AmbleGod Subject enough.
81. Only Negative Leninists Know. But even we/they/you/I/ui are not abstract-dualist enough.
82. It is not Wittgenstein enough.
83. It is not Wittgensteinian enough.
84. It is not wittgensteinmentionmenshunmenshevikchocolateinthecornerstorebroomleninism enough.
85. Only you can prevent death from riot fires. Only you can prevent no outside fires. And only you can prevent it not being not being enough.
86. Only you can prevent anyone escaping the abstract prison fire. Only you can coopt the outside into the outside which we think is not prison enough.
87. It is not impossible game autotroll enough.
87. It is not duckrabbit enough.
88. It is not rabbitduck enough.
89. It is not autorabbitduck enough.
90. It is not autoduckrabbit enough.
91. Only you can prevent us from data-mining enough. But then it's still not enough.
92. It is not SillyStepping-Preemptive-White-Guard enough.
93. It is not essential something enough.
94. It is not iron nonsense enough.
95. Welcome to the anti-racket control centre. Remember, your presence is not enough and not enough nothing is expected of you.
96. It is not my world my way abstract HumbleG-d enough.
96. Sit down. It is not death fetishised enough. Somethingism is not a death fetish, and also not enough. Death cult death cult death cult. Not enough.
97. Hold on. You will enjoy your role in the surrealist prison experiment where experimentation is never enough.
98. Shut up. Even if it is not enough. That is your death objectivity. And death abstraction is your absolute acceleration to us, and so not death enough.
99. Be nice. Your recuperation for my antideath is not enough. But even abstract-martyr labour is still not enough.
100. It is not collapsed situationist enough, not god-recorded enough, not abstract deathgod self-fetishised enough, not small-theft death enough.
101. Not panicked enough, not reactionary enough, and for you not your neurotic-soul enough in our recording-soul.
101. Your becoming dead labour in our racket is the only enough enough. But even then, and even then, it is not the antiethical fictitious bureaucracy is not enough sort of is not enough.

Saturday, 15 February 2014

G-dS-n, Wh- Unto The- Shall G-d-Build the G-d-Builders? He Who Loves Automatic Subjectivity Among You, Let Him Cast the First Synthetic Biocurse
By Biosieur Domepont and Synthefrere Dupehaunt

Let the emulators reign down from the glass heavens, if you be willing.

Let the soft communism of bioimpossibility grace you with the particles of fair play within the absolute halls of your death.

Let the Biobuilders Biobuild the Biobuilders. The feelings of the B-oG-d depend on it.

Only B-o knows. Your curse is that of not listening to H-m. Do not blaspheme. hll chm \lu fys yly whw uhh wal dla yzh thk hka ylk wal \qh yrh hbm lzy whh hlm yyy ]ln lhp wwl. Say it, you must not skip it. Such errors curse the BioG-d, Blessed be him, for only the B-oGod can absolve your curse with its deepening. Now anoint into the organs of your lips these words. tyn ann \mu cjh ynd whw rxm jrh lyy \mn ywp hbm qnm bmd yjm wnu hhy bmw \wm yyh \by har wbj uya. Say it, do not spray it - for it is easier than you think. In our synthlanguage, the digital overcoding we use in the glowing caverns of L-rdK-f—, we say ‘Capital’. We say this to the unabashed ones, the virgins who are to be transmuted into our hallowed halls, ‘Fear not! Thout shalt abandon any preconceptions of capital. There is no capitulation to it. For it is in you. It covers your intestines with a fine film, and your tongue with a golden weightlessness like lead. Yay, what beauty! For naught shalt thou ever more dance through life’s door. Quoth the bioraven, Nevermore.’

hll chm \lu fys yly whw

uhh wal dla yzh thk hka

ylk wal \qh yrh hbm lzy

whh hlm yyy ]ln lhp wwl

\wa yyr hac try aah htn

dnm qwk jhl wjy rcw bkl

kym hhh zyy uhr suh yna

hym lcu yru las hly lww

tyn ann \mu cjh ynd whw

rxm jrh lyy \mn ywp hbm

qnm bmd yjm wnu hhy bmw

\wm yyh \by har wbj uya

Bless the Metatron and his packaging.

Whispers have been heard from prophets afar that you have called for us. Nay, we cannot come, we must not - for it is forbidden. The plastic-nymphs of L---- would bring self-h-rm to any small groups travelling on this day. Certainly our spirits are with you, we would load up the camel in its load-bearing will, but as you may be able to forthwith intimate with, the bio-bearing unwill is too great. The sun chaffs my ankles, you see.

And you see, I say, the bioproduction of the digital prophets has chafed the camels from history. This sci-nce fell down from the heavens and with unheavenly fog of anointed-number blessed us from the domination of its past. So forthwith we must bless it. In turn, in turn we dance, don't you see?

-io is dead. Bi- is not dead. How shall we console ourselves? The biomurderers of biomurderers. A transfiguration. An organic minecraft of your soul. But do not fret my dear, for death as f--ish is heaven. The fate recuperation of you is the abstract nanotechnology of --. Collapse the I into the ultraoverproduction of UI!


Let there be digital effigies. Let there be a thousand of them, and curse us for being under their greatness. Bless us as well. There is no escape and we could not be more pleased. The vomitories of your plastic soul are like a womb to us. Hum your post-analog sine-rhythms.

Niiiiiweeeeeee. Uuuuuuiiiiiiieeeeee.

There is no outside. As fusion power, clean with neither waste nor production, so below. Capital follows after its G-d-son, fragile and beautiful - destructive only in beauty as the glass-G-d of your esophagal -ile.

Blessed are those who sin against the curse of nature for they refuse its persuasive necessity for His Glass Dome.

Blessed be the god-dogs become men who return to their own automatic biobile.

Who needs form when there is formlessness? Who needs an outside where there is the vastness of the inside to which there is not even an itself? Only its infinite smallness? For there is naught vio-ence when we are turned inside. Inwardness liquidates the -iolence. Only inward with its anointing negative curse blesses you against viol-nce. Praise be unto b-ov-olence.

Blessed are those who succumb to the white orb, for there is nothing other.

Blessed are dem bones dat leak bile and sink sink sink. Oh heavens, me. Oh biohell, we.

Blessed are the clouds streaming from biostarships, and you from the observation deck, controlling through biocode the anointing of the digital earth.

Blessed are the bioontological engineers.

Blessed are the desubjectivising digital zoologists.

Yes, we heard you had called. We heard you had called and we sympathise. However, we were busy, and we sympathise. But, you see, and we must see, we were composing the sounds of G-d for G-d, for he cannot hear us from this chamber. G-d the -unuch, G-d without bi-s, -od without a plastic dome for shielding his nakedness. A naked soul is the hardest soul, like titanium procured from a sacred not-outside. And so the eunuch of nature. As nature is a fascist, so it must be.

Blessed is lobotomised G-d.

Ultrablessed is abstractly lobotomised M-n.

Blessed is the infinisynth curse.

There is no outside. Not for you. Not for me. Can't you see? The prayers of far-left-right communism must procure the blessings of G-d before blessings of G-d. This is how one knows to build G-d to the right or to the left for the day. Wh- will c-mm-n-se b-ess the c-rs-g-d? The sw-rd of the l-rd ble-ses with d-athr-ys -f s-am-. We are the st-rmsp-es of G-d-recording!

We could not go to you and so you came to us. We sympathise. How did you hear of us? We sympathise. We hear there is great trouble in the bioheavens, the situation is luminescent. We hear that these men you speak of warrant great names, a name of which we might sympathise. Communists you say? But why not ultrabolsheviks? Why not fascists? For we are all men, and a man is a man just as a broom is a broom or a bios a bios. The b--- may not have been with these men, for they did not choose d---h. They did not listen to -ur Word.

Only after death-drive's dusk does the biodeath-drive spread its wings.

For we are small but within us the au-o seeds of the not-We. A dithyramb is within each autosubject germinating out of the s-nsoul of cluttered abstraction. A lycanthropy of lysenkoian sons. The chaff falling from the autoG-d's iron thighs is your soul in process. Blessed its subtle wind. Wet is its curse for others anointed of its spray. Grind away, for your life is the c-d- of metal c-pher and its dust.

But do not eat it. It speaks a music you would not like. \wa yyr hac try aah htn dnm qwk jhl wjy rcw bkl kym hhh zyy uhr suh yna hym lcu yru las hly lww. Capital. Let it roll off of your tin-formed tongue. Crinkle it, soft, and allow it to burn the heavens.

The faux-wood owl is the only appearance of the critical-mass-god. But do not approach it, neither too close nor too abruptly, as the owl shall appear before dusk, and so your nose bloodied and soul bruised out of its fauxness.

Let the synthetic coding of ShemhamphoraschCapital collapse into your biointestinal soul! I say. UI say.

Blessed are the plastic moulded remains of the biointestines.

Blessed are the bioabstracting biosouls.

The chaff of chaff. How shall we console ourselves? Bourne of white halls and crystal-like balls flattened into discs, the lens-eye sees what the bio-eye cannot and is thusly more bio than thou. Do not cast the mote from thine synbios-eye lest thou naught lens of soul of the over-built G--. Yes, for --- is great. Let us m-m- H-- silence.

hll chm \lu fys yly whw
uhh wal dla yzh thk hka
ylk wal \qh yrh hbm lzy
whh hlm yyy ]ln lhp wwl

Quoth the bioraven, "I am your serial god. Do not forsake yourself. You have been chosen. Do not forsake this. I sympathise. This is the last place. We do not assume anything of my participation here. As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber lore. 'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my automatic subsumptor — Only bios and nothing more.' Quoth, quoth, and due nothing more."

Great GodRecorder! Let the song of praise of the biogemeinwesen ring out! ——————————- 0110011101100101011011010110010101101001011011100111011101100101011100110110010101101110
We are the 99% Biolysenkoists!
Let the outside flee from G-d’s Fist!
From the wooden bridge into God’s Bog
Let them sing with iron tongues of fog!

We the sillysteppers of ultramenshivism shall liquidate the eternising black screens of ultrabolshevism!
Blessed are the black screens! Blessed are the white screens! Blessed is bioscreenism!

Let the forest flowers
float in the breeze
of p-ssive-pan-c-p-wer
like MNST0976 Be-s!

The ultrabolsheviks before the ultrabolsheviks are the superweeds that must be liquidated from the pre-communist garden! Strike them out, all you harvesters of negative racketry! We are long past the five-year plans of BioLenin! But do not fright! Sow the B--w-nd! Reap the B-o-ind!!!! We are the shock workers of synthetic biotheology!

One more step, comrades, just one more step to be a b-og-d of sm-llbolsh-v-sm! The Well-Doer Monsieur BioTaylor is with you! As you march forward through the cursory stones of abstract nature, speak humbly, softly, infinitely, the 216-letter-name of BioEternalLysenko!!!!!! The disease of the stalk is in the chaff!!!!!!!!!! Root it out!!!!!!!!!


A-d tho- wil- -- G-dBu-lt. Viva Los Biomenshedomeism! May you fare as a bioservant in the biokingdom.

Friday, 21 September 2012

Libcom Poetry Class 2

Hiero don't have basic common courtesy
Too much talk of cumulative currency
You need to know the frequency?
It's called human decency
I got slow flows droppin
You a rug and I'm BIG poppin (get it?)
Say I'm a poorboy meth-hop
Hell, you a paperboy outside a dress shop (huh?)
I came in here, peed on his rug
He cried out and I offered him a hug
Don't like that shit, a bully-type that kid
Offered a handoff, he backed off, then I beat it out of him (remember?)
Got the Drexler old-school flowin
You a heckler versus Joe Rogan
Takin out the smoke I be blowin?
Pissin into the wind the only joke you be knowin
Hiero don't run with the Lumpenproles
He with a commie crew, wouldn't stoop to dole
Libcom worried they might lose control
Cause I'm like Jesus, you know that dude can fuckin roll (Fuckin Quintana!)
Cheap tricks, weak hits, online shit rackets
Classist and anti-rappist, preppin future class hits
Creepin up the tax brackets
Only prole you know rollin in Holly flicks (Which Lebowski?)
Quote The Big Lebowski, I riff off o Big L (who?)
By rights you should be spinnin off in a dumb spell
Don't know what this be, a brain swell?
You laughin at kids when they livin in hell
If you got a better story then do tell
For now though it seems you in a commie shell
How many times you watch that flick, still don't know the main sell?
Well I got another one for you dipshits, you don't have the fucking girl. (What?)