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!
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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.
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! ——————————-
B=E=R=G=W=E=R=K
We are the 99% Biolysenkoists!
Let the outside flee from G-d’s Fist!
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From the wooden bridge into God’s Bog
Let them sing with iron tongues of fog!
B=E=R=G=W=E=R=K
010101010110110001110100011100
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!
B=E=R=G=W=E=R=K
B=E=R=G=W=E=R=K
G-----------------------------
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!!!!!!!!!
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A-d tho- wil- -- G-dBu-lt. Viva Los Biomenshedomeism! May you fare as a bioservant in the biokingdom.
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