Phantom Limb Sabotage
Phantom Limb Sabotage
Marko Zlomislic
For S
Has Mother Earth become Humanity’s Phantom Limb?
Paul Virilio, Open Sky
“If you’re caught in the dream of the other, you’re fucked”
Gilles Deleuze
The blue layers, retina that separates the full from the Void, but the fullness of the earth is overflowing with waste. Pollution that we layer into subdivisions. To dig and disturb the underground that props up our lives. Another world is possible but the same flavor is re-gifted.
We will become responsible for our own erasure when the earth will glow like a sun.
Then the horizon will vanish and along with it the zones of human after taste.
But the real will still be taken, a burr that hitches itself to a Data Suit sabotaging the birth of the event.
The phantom limb our Cartesian heritage, the ghostly effect that affects what remains.
What was there though cut off is still felt to be there. The no longer there is still here.
We are Virilio writes, in a state of perpetual dependence on the unseen but still felt.
The imaginary is the human domain, the gap where we find the still bleeding wounds of our dead gods. The shock of the crumpled future if Nietzsche is correct, can be received with a joy that shatters the test sites of global consumption.
Satellite networks of the monstrous Leibnizean monad, windowless, unable to see the other screaming. It is the uneven that cannot be tolerated. The surface jagged with the new and unique must be planed down, flattened on Procrustes’ bed. Taste what is at the core of the empty space occupied by the Master. He baits you with Coke Zero and aspartame delight.
To see with the same Oedipal eye is already an imposed mutilation.
To cauterize the bleeding is to unplug from the network.
To get off from the grid rather than to get off on the electronic satisfaction it provides.
St. Jerome declares, “ The world is already full and no longer holds us”.
So we remain dependant on the Master’s promise of digital lobotomies.
Corbusier claims, “The house is a machine for living”. He wants to fix the standard and with passion, “create drama out of inert stone”.
Wittgenstein wants the method that is, “the strictly correct one”. These rectal desires want the straight edge to be secured such that we live in the tension of two orders of ethics
Correct as the right heart, correct as the rectal heart, that eliminates the foreigner with murderous discontent.
Fake a prayer in the face of death as the nameless African children are posted, offered up to keep the pennies in the Halloween UNICEF boxes rolling into the Hague. Bailout for the capitalists who cannot live by the rules of their own game.
Hunger and famine for the third world. They are filmed but not fed. We wish to leave the confines of this paralysis to find the primordial encounter. But this is a trip into Nature, into the predatory chaos.
Cry to heaven as the ground beneath your feet spirals into trauma. Worn down by the glacial grind, a skateboard trick that defies gravity, that seeks escape velocity from the funbox ramp. My son is five, he is on his board without fear. He is free gliding on wheels, turning on the half pipe without a cord.
Some await the drunk messiah who splits the sky with a jagged impulse. Ahab’s leg in the belly of the whale becomes the prosthetic, multiplying its monstrosity onto dry land.
Only a Hancock can save us now, while Hannibal continues to feed.
The digital focus of the viral eye chipped from Descartes spirit leg. Embalm it like Bentham’s corpse to preside over the meetings of the World Bank. Civil lies, civilize. This system a train wreck with built in safe guards to fund its own mistakes.
Who is appointed Lord and Head? You anoint him with your labour only to be baptized with fear. The still birth of your madness is too feeble to reverse the gears of the pyramid machine that grinds its progeny into the bricks that structure its walls.
Animated it exalts itself. Apparatus of the Rector’s war machine
The smooth space. Marble surface. Where we will have been ground down
To have our ashes as the only mute witness.
Marko Zlomislic
For S
Has Mother Earth become Humanity’s Phantom Limb?
Paul Virilio, Open Sky
“If you’re caught in the dream of the other, you’re fucked”
Gilles Deleuze
The blue layers, retina that separates the full from the Void, but the fullness of the earth is overflowing with waste. Pollution that we layer into subdivisions. To dig and disturb the underground that props up our lives. Another world is possible but the same flavor is re-gifted.
We will become responsible for our own erasure when the earth will glow like a sun.
Then the horizon will vanish and along with it the zones of human after taste.
But the real will still be taken, a burr that hitches itself to a Data Suit sabotaging the birth of the event.
The phantom limb our Cartesian heritage, the ghostly effect that affects what remains.
What was there though cut off is still felt to be there. The no longer there is still here.
We are Virilio writes, in a state of perpetual dependence on the unseen but still felt.
The imaginary is the human domain, the gap where we find the still bleeding wounds of our dead gods. The shock of the crumpled future if Nietzsche is correct, can be received with a joy that shatters the test sites of global consumption.
Satellite networks of the monstrous Leibnizean monad, windowless, unable to see the other screaming. It is the uneven that cannot be tolerated. The surface jagged with the new and unique must be planed down, flattened on Procrustes’ bed. Taste what is at the core of the empty space occupied by the Master. He baits you with Coke Zero and aspartame delight.
To see with the same Oedipal eye is already an imposed mutilation.
To cauterize the bleeding is to unplug from the network.
To get off from the grid rather than to get off on the electronic satisfaction it provides.
St. Jerome declares, “ The world is already full and no longer holds us”.
So we remain dependant on the Master’s promise of digital lobotomies.
Corbusier claims, “The house is a machine for living”. He wants to fix the standard and with passion, “create drama out of inert stone”.
Wittgenstein wants the method that is, “the strictly correct one”. These rectal desires want the straight edge to be secured such that we live in the tension of two orders of ethics
Correct as the right heart, correct as the rectal heart, that eliminates the foreigner with murderous discontent.
Fake a prayer in the face of death as the nameless African children are posted, offered up to keep the pennies in the Halloween UNICEF boxes rolling into the Hague. Bailout for the capitalists who cannot live by the rules of their own game.
Hunger and famine for the third world. They are filmed but not fed. We wish to leave the confines of this paralysis to find the primordial encounter. But this is a trip into Nature, into the predatory chaos.
Cry to heaven as the ground beneath your feet spirals into trauma. Worn down by the glacial grind, a skateboard trick that defies gravity, that seeks escape velocity from the funbox ramp. My son is five, he is on his board without fear. He is free gliding on wheels, turning on the half pipe without a cord.
Some await the drunk messiah who splits the sky with a jagged impulse. Ahab’s leg in the belly of the whale becomes the prosthetic, multiplying its monstrosity onto dry land.
Only a Hancock can save us now, while Hannibal continues to feed.
The digital focus of the viral eye chipped from Descartes spirit leg. Embalm it like Bentham’s corpse to preside over the meetings of the World Bank. Civil lies, civilize. This system a train wreck with built in safe guards to fund its own mistakes.
Who is appointed Lord and Head? You anoint him with your labour only to be baptized with fear. The still birth of your madness is too feeble to reverse the gears of the pyramid machine that grinds its progeny into the bricks that structure its walls.
Animated it exalts itself. Apparatus of the Rector’s war machine
The smooth space. Marble surface. Where we will have been ground down
To have our ashes as the only mute witness.
posted by Zlomislic @ 7:39 AM
