META-NOMAD

Applied Ballardianism Review: A Manual for the Present

Four or five days ago – I don’t remember now – early in the morning around seven or eight I went to take the rubbish out and found to my surprise a small parcel outside my door, sitting beneath the porch. What was strange is that the postman doesn’t deliver until midday and the letter box was easily big enough for it to fit through, this was left for me. I quickly put it inside and proceeded to take out the trash. As the lid closed on the dustbin I turned back to upon the road, the streetlights were still on. They were covering the suburban brick walls in a thin fluorescent film. It all seemed a little dead.

I went inside and brewed myself an instant coffee. A taste I’ve come to somewhat ‘enjoy’, though I’m undecided as to whether or not I’ve simply reframed what ‘enjoy’ means. I picked up the package from near the door and sat at my kitchen table. The weather was dry and pale, the coffee was burnt and bitter and my eyes were heavy and already bored. I opened the package – a simple cardboard leaf type thing – to find a copy of Simon Sellar’s Applied Ballardianism: Memoir From a Parallel Universe. There was a post it attached to the inside of the package: To MN, let this be your manual for the present. Yours, FK.

My thoughts began to hum, I felt a little disjointed and so the digressions began. I knew not of Sellars – though my mind did quickly flash to the name Wilfred Sellars, alas no connection – , but ‘Ballardianism’, I understood this referred to the author J.G. Ballard. I’d read Crash when I was too young and most of it went over my head – however it did lead me to watch a documentary called My Car is My Lover. I had also seen Empire of the Sun and distinctly remember the scene which includes the joke:

“Hey kid! You want a Mars bar?”

“Yes please Mr!

“Me too kid!”

This takes place near some barbwire fence and the film stars a young Patrick Bateman and John Malkovich – who apparently plays Kurtz in another film, can you imagine.

I began to read Sellar’s book. It was strange. My mind began to make connections it had not made before. Absurd juxtapositions became clear to me. I became a little derealized but kept reading anyway. The book follows Sellars journey throughout the post-capitalist, heavily image driven landscape whilst he finds meaning within both his own life and the work of Ballard, and at times largely attempting to find meaning in his own life through Ballard. Sellars attends to many of my own personal ‘intellectual’ anxieties, largely his encyclopaedic knowledge of pop culture as a means of assessing and analysing almost any situation, event or text. As interesting as these analyses can be, Sellars brings to the fore the almost academic guilt one feels at being able to – in my own case – recite Mad Max almost word for word, but name at most 5 Rembrandt paintings. Is this Ballardian? I’m not too sure.

I began clawing at large clues as to what Ballardianism entailed. Dislocated, disenfranchised, derealized, disassociated and disconnected, everything Ballardian is unhinged and rides on a possibility. Sure, I don’t have a toaster that can play pornography, but the fact there almost certainly is one that can is rather Ballardian. Using the term ‘Ballardianism’ reeks of pomposity, and yet I feel that unlike Kafka-esque, Pynchonian, Foucauldian or Derridean the term Ballardian wouldn’t be taken as seriously at any literary convention, and yet also wouldn’t be taken seriously by those who are knee-deep in Ballard’s prophecies, namely the populous.

I left the book for now, I’d somehow read almost half of it by lunchtime, drinking only one insta-coffee as refreshment. I wondered what FK meant by the text being a manual. I was to find out. I showered and became aware of the intricacies of pressure and volume all whilst the latest album by Ghost BC played through my phone’s speaker. I was showering in any temperature of my choosing to the sound of occult Swedish pop. Odd. I finished up and made my way to the lounge, sat upon the sofa I felt a little dizzy, as if it had become very clear to me that all was merely representation, and at a moment’s notice the world could crumble. I flicked on the TV, something I hadn’t done in weeks, if not months. Ballard – and Sellars – are correct, videos of dying African children next to teeth whitening products, cinematic automobile adverts juxtaposed against school shootings. I didn’t give a shit about any of these things.

Ballardianism – as I’ve come to understand it – couldn’t truly exist without screens, TVs, monitors etc. And so I checked my phone for the 53rd time today, nothing. I flicked through my 3 personally recurrent apps: Twitter, Reddit and Snapchat. The first two are somewhat self-explanatory in that they’re social media and easy pickings, but the last, Snapchat, is a Ballardian oasis. It is where the average consumer goes to signal purchase, life and desire. 5 second clips of gatherings, meals, holidays, beers, consumption, fireworks, flash cars. Temporary images of kisses, meals, friends, speed-limits, law-breaking and of other screens; temporary images of consumption fractured and fragmented from their successive reality. A snippet of the most mind-numbingly basic desire uploaded into cyberspace and paraded in front of information perverts. My deconstructions made me feel nauseous, I needed real air.

I began the short walk to town. On the way I saw the corpse of a shrew nestled in a discarded kitkat wrapper. I listened as the faint tweets of the distant birds were drowned out by competitive revving, inaudible bass and the occasional soap-opera tune emanating from a passing window. The odd mixture of manure and cherry vape smoke made my nose overreact, it began to drip. I used a Simpsons tissue from the bottom of my rucksack to wipe it, Marge’s face began to bleed ink. I became self-conscious of the lint stuck to my chinos and took the indirect route via the churchyard because of this. I looked up the spire, the bells already clanging, the light shone through the stained glass window upon the automated bell-ringing mechanisms. I thought about Jesus on the cross…I thought about robo-Jesus on his robo-cross. Just past the spire are small burial plaques, I always look out for my Grandparent’s one, subtly covered in overgrown grass, next to it a 1ft high ornament of Sleepy from the Seven Dwarves holding a wheelbarrow and yawning. I left the churchyard.

The book had got to me quite quickly. Its clean prose and meticulous attention for visual connections and juxtapositions had quasi-upgraded my software. I was temporarily a machine of consumerist deconstruction, allowing each desire, attitude and signal to rise to the surface. Breath in Sellar’s work and let the cores of the consumo-apathetic landscape shine brightly next to one another. A toolkit for ideological assimilation preparation, watch as the the edges blur, the borders fade and desire willingly sodomizes acceptance.

I finally made it to the store. I can’t detail what I saw because it would only turn into an incoherent scribble of absurd post-capitalist connections. The emergence of a simple local convenience store creates such dislocated, fragmented and visually hostile connections that one’s only course is to submit. I thought back to Sellars book, and the note left for me. Perhaps it is a manual for the present. But the present is incoherent. And so Sellar’s book is but a manual for a maze into visual absurdity, into post-capital hyper-hedonia; a guidebook for a present at the whim of unhinged infantile desire, a present being dragged from the asylum of time and gaffer-taped to Ballardian intensities.

Review: digital americana mixtape

There’s an odd formation of ye olde Green Day grossness within the first strums, throw me a bone slices into a vibrant cocktail of pain, energy and remorse, the lyrics almost undefinable, reminiscent of a chaotic young-adult malaise spent amongst estates of dry grass. At once and all together you begin falling, a youthful freedom tinged with responsibility, deterministic punks.

eviction – entry of the DIY aesthetic ten-fold, crust and sludge combine into a harsh feedback of nausea-noise. Shoulders dislocate and the dancefloor rectangle spirals into a circular alco-chem-mess. The frame of the tracks so far a broken speaker, giving its all to the last, vibrations as formation. Caustic feedback as a musical resolution. Evicted from your ear drum’s expectations. and so damn angry‘s beginnings see reliable sincere angst mutate into something a little more digital, americana falling apart at the seams, becoming only capital-cana within the contemporary. Anger of the 21st century…exhaustion and apathy and the tap of a metal-machine, fractured digital output. There’s a sadness in the loss of the singular and fixed, yet what of an entire generation who knew no different.

happywaiting. A strange assemblage of notes, scrapes and whines, oddly jaunty and forgetful synonymously, the bar its own, its smell putting others off. cold shoulder to cry on quickly understands the subtle escape attempts of punks’ formative years, from the background, encased in a suffocative gauze of drone is the sincerity of a lonely musician attempting to scramble at the scraps, swiftly strummed into place by an faintly upbeat riff.

care, there’s lots of it within this album, a modest, warm and husky-late-night-sesh filled embrace of what went wrong. Withdrawing much of the energy from past artists, too many to name, into an exhausted, sympathetic and yet encouraging voice of a move forward, however bleak the first few steps might be. hellion 1, the digital disallowing true connection, a tinkered flicker and then dudbeats and 404’s spat into a sporadic frenzy. A heart palpitation run through melting vinyl. With bark alone testifying to the neutrality of your decision; western digital and western waste care not for what you do, just move. Post-nasal drip spluttered down strings.

walk with me allows the past to enter more thoroughly, a mid-morning, hot-sun jig with a beer, but everyone here senses that everyone here aint that great; feelin’ rough, hangover tough, dicky belly, foggy skull and over into the next morning, glugging down to bear the pain.

your heart’s too hungry. One of the best tracks I have the pleasure to review. A defiant sigh beaconed to no one, but fuck, why not. Maybe you should stop, maybe you shouldn’t, this album’s as pleasant as a hangover is going to get, your fear’s strange, not tacked to anything really.

Gotta admit, I went into a nostalgic trance for a bit there, :: i love you but, didn’t help, it takes me back somewhere I really can’t put my finger on, somewhere covered in annoyance and disappointment and yet, comfort. You only want to be horizontal right now, face perpendicular to the skies, colour don’t matter, you’re in your head…and you aint getting out for a while. Sorry champ.

 


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Review: CLWNWRLD PRESENTS: THE RINGLEADER’S SYMPHONY

You’re sat in this cafe, this cafe. The windows, the large, bowing panes of glass feel as if they’re vibrating, reflecting and strumming against bulb lines. Maleficent trembles as your entire glaze’s over, eyes over chips and under-others into a chem-soup. Into the muzak-home of a banal existence, falling backwards into plastic and mundanity as one does during a slow mourning; the daily march overstrung by a realist chorus of chiming techscape. [_Jester’s Bliss_] is our trance-trajectory into meditative k-scapes.

[_Train of Freaks_] is where the literal nature of the album awakens. The paranoia and intrusion of boxcart trivilations suffocates you, unable to focus on nothing or something, a constant to-and-fro of anxiety-sweats, too much coffee creates a beat-pandemic of repetition. Gaping caustic reverb mutating into authorative cluster-headaches. Don’t bother. [_Eyes in the Shadows_] does it too. We have two for the price of one on paranoid underground haste, flicking into ‘worst’-mode, coat-grip away from those. A spiralling tunnel-drone into your back as you refuse to turn. Haunted subways united the fears of the strange and mundane.

There’s calm in light, but only if one has just been removed from the dark, the reality is, the horror never leaves and a reminder of its existence only exacerbates your quivers. And your heart does this…thing, an expansion of the blood, cells collapse outward, muscle-pain, lung-stretch. Each deep breath acts as an aching reminder of life within the smog-pen. you, you… [_Drunkard_]. [_Leaf Lady’s Song_] tin steps past an arcade, a young lad without limbs drums on an arcade machine, rolling his head on the buttons in hope of hitting the big time. A Lynchian “Watch that man! Watch that man! Watch that man!” or “Hey! Hey! Hey…Sally!” with verbal elongation and smokers husk wouldn’t go a miss here; backstreets, fuck you, smoke behind the eyes.

[_Liz’s House of Color_] damn this thing kicked in.”Hey shut the fuck up im listening.” “Hasn’t that guy drunk 8lbs of coffee today.” the street flicks into anxious-time, a ripple effect under your feet and unto the morning into an eye-roll begotten. Teen tam tom and the trance rolls into a chased temporal agency, you want a headcave, watch this. Arcade boy has grow a huge leg and is stomping onto you, the subway train has stopped just out of sight and you just know the driver is reversing in hopes of finding you. Where’d you leave your bag? It had your Grandma’s polyfiller in it, she uses it to glue her teeth in. You wonder why the beat works for a second, just before it crashes. You’re finally home, resting your hand on your head, brain matter clicking into channel Z, LCD flickers in and out, tech-shutters and shadows of a neon sun fall upon your lids. Your sofa fucking hates your plump arse.

Sometimes my face shifts between 2 to 3 planes, flesh on flesh.

Laughter…from the rafters. Those little fuckin’ Deet Deets at it again. Beep boop. It will not stop. “Hey ma.” “Yes.” “?” “It’s been going on for days love, just ignore it.” [_A Midnight Conversation_] has begun. Over and over, then, then, the phone rings, a long jaunty ring, puts me in a fun panic. We call it happy sweat, the perspiration becomes faster, and faster, I spew sweat like jets from the innards of my elbows. I gotta sit down. I can’t, I’m still on the fucking train. Clowntime is in. Loud, open mouths produce rotund boops. They arch forward and back, faster each time, throwing their heads back and forth, smiles getting wider, and not a hair on their clown heads moving. Static comedic pulsating on a train. A pivoting immovable nightmare, I try to move, they all scream. Clowntrain baby! They march. The nightmare you have to sit through, acknowledging the pain one is about to suffer prior to suffering, this is hell. yet, sometimes, the pain doesn’t come, and one is left into a clicking-coma of worry.

Off you fucking get. The train doors were made of bio-waste. They sludge in and you step off. The ride keeps going. Out into [_Hollow City_] you know you’ve left this time, there’s no light. Just heavy beams of dark glow. You just want to walk. [_New Life_] plays like a pleasent Nintendo game, a farming sim. A warm summer where you kissed a girl once fades into memory, skyscrapers dissolve into the background for a momentary glimpse of contentment [_Perching Square_] Look at this fucking idiot. indeed. it’s clownworld, screech time clicks into gear, mechanistic screams for dumb human dreams. Try move, bitch. No movement, only submission to any clown who wonders by, an old animation where the lines are schizophrenic. Resist. The end here is sincerely morbid, a melancholic death involving tech, I can’t explain this; there’s acceptance here, a deep acceptance…of the future, and all that it will bring, it is he who walks knowingly into an electro-static death space.

[_NUTMEG SESH_] OH ma BOY. You were prepared for the future you thought, you didn’t think it would be so malicious, and downright mean. watch it, watch it all. Every vice of the past flicked into overgear and assembled on a hedonistic plane of sadomasochism. Industrial sex-drive mashed into a flesh blend. [_Manifesto_] the utilization of the previous tracks work as a means to contextualize the death of coherence into a chasmic meltdown of sonics. [_Take a Hint Royal Jester_] but that’s the problem isn’t it, the future doesn’t take hints, the temporal jester throwing  himself into chaotic schizo-tonic, why don’t you take a hint, yeah…

 

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Review: subboreal – childhood’s end

Quaint electronic ticks and early morning coffees arise from a forgotten train journey, nothing more, nothing less. Trees pass and pylons tower overhead. Path, a path of electric and static through romantic shadows. Sonder & sadness both sewn into this metallic tapestry. A mind races, unable to enter fully into that they wish to, a book unread, a text not sent, as time passes without event to fill it.

Euthanasiaa stark title, pushing off with heart monitor remembrance, a pulse runs directly into a paranoid-loss. Overclocking your emotions into a palpitation ever-present, bulging and pulsing into veins flowing. The skyline has changed, your memories fading into an abysmal grey sludge, another beverage, another piece of the past disintegrates into wishes. There’s a lust for warmth here, a need, a want, for warmth and for a care that cannot be found amongst forgotten chips darting vertically from a washed-out landscape.

You can’t ignore the future, you can only inject nostalgia into your circuits as more and more fear washes over you. Journey, it’s ever present and the dreams a fleeting glimpse, the only hope for what it was you had: the screens, ticks, beeps and slides all melt forwards into ruining your vision, inescapable temporality has entered the memory of your earliest birthday parties, cutting the cake instead of your parents, bundles of wires where friends used to be, a static hum is sung amongst the revelry.

Mind entering a panic drive. Attempts to enter somewhere forbidden, not stopped, only warned against. You may enter here, but be warned, you’ll leave a different entity. Worship cyber and bring forth the cold of metal. Bags getting heavy and the sting of your ill red skin worsens. Harmonic aluminium hell. Screech melodics enter into the mundanity, you can’t sleep for fear of waking into more electrical-detriment. Each sombre-tone erased, ever so slowly. Each placid inch of help and love grows downward, rotting as it falls. It’s over. But it still has to continue.

As the sterilization comes, you’re already anaesthetised by the suffocation and fall, quietly into a bed made of humming. Bone splinters and spinal plunge, take the hand of steel, let go of flesh, of life, of sense. Come forth into repetition pure. We can give you your memories back for a second or two, it wont help, but the illusion of help might be nice, amongst your trees of youth, horizons lost to polite play, everything you had, had, had.

Short, but then childhood is.


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Solaris: Acceptance of Horizons

We want to extend the earth to the borders of the cosmos.”

Surrounded by sublime vegetation, trees and earth, a lake spans forth caressing the traditional architecture of a home. Rain comes heavy overshadowing the minor footsteps of humanity. There’s subtle references to a far off world called Solaris thrown into the picture, each suffocated by the remaining humanity within Tarkovsky’s writing and cinematography. There’s a sense that the question Kelvin poses, namely whether or not science can be moral or immoral needn’t matter here, for these grandiose questions are juxtaposed against the timeless tranquillity of the traditional countryside, a cliché that only someone with Tarkovsky’s skill could make original once more.

Image result for solaris 1972

We’re introduced to Berton, a pilot who previously witnessed a four-meter-tall child on Solaris, slimy, nude and creating a waves within the ocean, a horror which was dismissed by the masses as a hallucination, and in a typically Kafka-esque manner Berton’s life and story has become the subject of ridicule, yet needless to say, the man himself is wary to bring the nauseous memory to the surface once more, for fear of its induction into the plane of reality, or at least, whatever remains of reality for our horror-stricken Berton. The opening to Solaris acts as a grounding for a past, one that teases little and is sincere in its acceptance of animals. An element of contrast that thematically resides at the back of one’s memory throughout viewing, against the coming madness fades a memory of normality.

Image result for solaris 1972

Upon arrival to the station Kelvin is greeted by little hospitality, all that awaits him within the station hovering above the ocean is paranoia. Consistently placed circular windows look out onto Solaris’s surface, a surface entirely oceanic and irradiated. A pulsating behemoth of water emanating a desire to the lesser to prod its potential mysteries. Kelvin soon learns his only acquaintance upon the station, Gibarian, has committed suicide, reportedly he entered into a perpetual state of depression “since the disturbances began.”

Before long such ‘disturbances’ become apparent to Kelvin and the viewer, hallucinations appear which are collectively shared by those aboard the station. Materializations of a conception of memory, or the memory of a person are brought to life on Solaris. Kelvin’s deceased lover Hari has returned and as such he decides to fire her away in the knowledge that she is dead, yet Kelvin soon learns that the hallucinations will never fully leave, and they are to return time and time again, each time learning more and more from the matter of your memory. The infinitesimal corpses of your memories materializations pile up as the ocean continues to probe your mind for the most minute of details. Each hallucination only as much of that ‘memory’ or that ‘person’ as one’s mind can muster, as such, our crew are left with ghost like visions of their past loves and experiences.

Image result for solaris 1972

These abstract horrors cling to nothing but their provider for life, and so the lives of hallucinations are entirely burdened to their creator, as such they will do what they can to convince your of their reality. As the 20 years deceased relative you once knew attempts to convince you of their reality, piecing together fragments of your own mind, be reminded that you are not going insane, you’re merely being probed by a planetary ocean with a consciousness, one that’s far more advanced than your own, humanities’ hardware is outdated and so you shall only receive packets of information caught in an empirical feedback loop. Attend to your own madness, and be kind as to not step upon others’.

Of late and of the past there has always been the unspoken idea that space exploration will act as a form of physical transcendence for humanity, wherein upon our ascent into the cosmos our limitations shall leave us behind, an ignorance so pure as to imagine that merely some form of empirical travel could remove our horizon when in actuality we’re still within it. It is not ourselves that have changed, only our position relative to our birth.

Tarkovsky’s vision of Lem’s Solaris is unapologetically anti-2001. 2001: A Space Odyssey is mistaken in attending the idea that humans could outsmart technology, 2001 goes as far as to imply the reversal of Solaris wherein it is Hal whose memory is slave to its fragmentation as opposed to humanity. Solaris from its very beginnings fully integrates the natural flaw that is humanity into the perfected systems that either they’ve created, or exist elsewhere, outside or noumenally. 2001 at its core is a story of man’s mastery over space, to argue this point I put forth Ebert’s explanation of 2001’s ending:

 

By now, man is intelligent enough to realize that the monolith was planted by another intelligent race, and that is an awesome blow to man’s ego. So he sets out toward Jupiter because the monolith beams signals in that direction. And man takes along “Hal 9000,” a computer (or tool) so complex that it may, even surpass the human intelligence. The ultimate tool.

But Hal 9000, made by man in his own image and likeness, shares man’s ego and pride. What is finally necessary is the destruction of Hal – after he nearly destroys the mission – and that leaves one man, alone, at the outer edge of the Solar System to face the third monolith.

And here man undergoes a transformation as important as when he became a tool-user. He becomes a natural being again, having used his tools for hundreds of thousands of years to pull himself up by the bootstraps. Now he no longer needs them. He has transcended his own nature, as that original ape did, and now he is no longer a “man.”

Instead, having grown old and died, he is reborn as a child of the universe. As a solemn, wide-eyed infant who slowly looks over the stars and the Earth and then turns his eyes on the audience.

These last 20 seconds, as the child of man looks down on his ancestral parents, are the most important in the film. We in the audience are men, and here is the liberated, natural being, Kubrick believes we will someday become.” – Roger Ebert

 

Ultimately at the end of 2001 it is man who ‘succeeds’ or transcends, man achieves mastery over his literal creator somehow and in quite a sentimental way becomes a dough-eyed infant looking down upon Earth. The ending is a Kubrickian rarity, it is – debatably – positive. Humanity overcomes space, a superhuman AI and eventually overcomes their own limitations.

If we’re to return to Solaris however one realises from the very beginning that such a case was never going to be put forth. Where Kubrick has apes utilizing tools, Tarkovsky has man pondering his morals, Kubrick gives us Strauss’ Also Sprach Zarathustra, the dawn of something great. Tarkovsky originally wanted nothing, but allowed us schizo electronic sounds as an opposition to unbridled hope. Where 2001 is forgiving, Solaris is vindictive and condemning. Tarkovsky understood that not matter how far we travel, nor in what vessel or whom with, we will always be dragging along with us the vicious memories of humanity.

In their cluttered and confused attempts at grasping the teasing’s of those superior to them humanity only claws back its own insecurities. If for one moment, man, you thought you were going to outsmart a concentrated planetary conscious you are mistaken, for it need only to remind you of a character in your own play to make you grovel and retreat. You might declare as Gibrarian did in a fit of madness “I am my own judge!” but be warned, for on your return to home you shall find no need for pleasantries, for you’ve entered into a labyrinth of horror wherein your worst fears are realised for eternity.

You arrive home to find all has been replaced by a perfect replica, each inch of the supposed matter attending to your reality instils a deep sense of the uncanny. Your dead wife runs to your side, your memory of her lost to time and so she too is lost to time, you’re left eternally with a cast without a script nor characterisation. You are left with only that which you created. An eternity without anything new. The slow death of mystery.

Review: Canned Meat – Soundtrack for Over​-​the​-​Counter Pharmaceuticals

Soundtrack for Over​-​the​-​Counter Pharmaceuticals R E V I E W

Facing eternity within a flesh-based ontology. The sky here a deep static, orchestrated from the past. Pharma-scape exists as a soundtrack prescription to a mundane life.

The unique nature of medicinal stench hits my nostrils, pharmaceutical stores reek of desperation:

Hey Chap, why don’t you get fucked!”

I collapse into a flesh heap and we begin.

I am with the floor, strewn sack of bone-coverings emancipating gallons of vomit-inducing sweat into every aisle. Pillboy climbs onto the counter and spins on one leg, shin-bone freeing itself, firing a flag-dart into my spinal column. Sweat Angels in Bedsheets he repeats over and over and over, increasing in speed, until it blends into delirium, a chaotic mixture of opiate brain-chasm and rust filings…eventual release into a swamp of tinnitus. Floor trembling, hurling chunks of rotten pill-dogs into the cities ventilation shafts. The city sleeps perpetually, in an ever pulsating slumber of hell-dreams. Upon waking the transition is so smooth one knows never where ‘n what ‘n when they are and the drums continue until the your head is ache.

– f l e s h d e s c e n d s – Sun-Ra Spirals – f l e s h d e s c e n d s

Revelry of nomadic om descends from a pill-legume heaven, a transcendent symptomatic malaise covers all. Minor ticks involved within the rare behaviours – they’ll pass with time -, none of this is psycho-somatic, it’s pure pill dictatorship as the static rises into a cacophony of hellish drone-time.

Downwards the effects begin to take place, beginning to rise and fall. Your sweat jumping out and back in, each and every gland attending and expanding for its own nausea. You pile them to the back of your throat as the plastic wrappings melt into a sludge trickling off your teeth, singular affects combining into a distorted enlightenment. And stop. The eye of the storm has malformed beyond comedown into dark-tranquillity, plateau-time is now. A member of the union shouts from afar:

Do you have enough electrolytes boy?”

I return a quip “Ktttssexiphenxetopratenzenzapetsatoladrine! Ine! Adol! Ine!” as each layer of my psyche flickers over the next and under the former, causing dopamine collapse. Each plateau ascending into a higher level of melodic chaos, each second attending to the caustic end of a dirty VHS reel, dragging its tail through pharma-splinters in the hope of death.

Foaming Blood isn’t attending any of your polite shit, as each tooth rots from the root until all that’s left is bone-foam, lunging up from your gums, out of mouth, dissolving floor. Vibrations loosen each socket of your being, until simulacrum of tremble. You’ve been invited to what looks to be a short melody, allowing you to recompose the overdose into a worse structure, you begin to survey the damage, your psyche has been dismantled and workers are feasting on the separation. They’re having a party, with the splayed relic of a collapsed lung as the centrepiece, each singular line is an impossibility, vibration and repetition initiates a confusion in the crowd, rampant idea-incest begins prior to the Hellenistic vomit ritual. Follow the bile-brick road: lines of micro-workers, each holding a white blood cell, dance in perfect time, retching gut drippings into your veins and stems. You’re being remoulded, legs of concrete, head of medication-Jell-O.

A clip of humanity comes through the blood-film atmosphere, its crass nature pauses all efforts of frivolity as we’re taken back to a dead Eden. Dead Eden pretending to care, the chimes made of pill-casings, and the harps assembled from tendons. Eat from the tree, eat from the floor, eat from the snake, for it’s all pharma. We can help you feel how we want you to. A nationalistic repeat covers the world, salutes from all, cover your heart before the mulch it’s become drips out. Rib-ache. – Waiting for the Scalpels to Arrive in the MailThere’s a point in time wherein screams become futile, not because of atmospheric lack, because of pure aural suffocation, a drill like odour hum so violent your widened mouth crumbles, lips melt into one another, flesh decelerates into a pulp-casing.

Allowed subtle reminders of pharma worship, knelt before gates made of ache and crush. The devoted allow their migraines, for hope of pharmaceutical intervention. They beckon and descend down each vein, each slower than the last, your kneel becomes compulsory. Kneel before the great dispenser and pray for a maggot sized helping. Lines of skulls jerk in time, choreographed seizures act as sacrifice. Arms lift themselves, skin brings with it heavy bone, perpetual fracturing. The ground entirely grated metal, to allow for extension seepage. Hell is a repetition never interrupted, a repeat so loud no sound can enter. The great churn begins, knee caps fragment, flying through each orifice. Your entire being is displaced into a welcoming tumour. There’s no layers here, plateau eradication as the perpetual swirl gears in. The dark meditation, allies with the alien Cancer. A job of death. The purpose of an existence is to end another’s. Eternal drug-spiral within an unconscious mass of breathing tissue. Becoming-fever, sweat-session, hallucinogenic-nausea: The Cancer Killing Bees Part II is over:

Rewind the serotonin tape please…ple…pl…”


Canned Meat

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