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Hunger, thirst ecstatic

A radical familiarity

ultimately and always

recedes into the background -

one of the hidden ties that

bind together narratives,

languish to suture this

fragmentation of mortality.

Desire oscillates below the surface -

The word seduces, tempts us to steer

away from death, incites us to embrace

phantastic illusions… though spider webs

rapidly dissolve with the morning dew,

blazing sun across fragile surfaces…

Below illusion, concealed, life and existence

inexorably fated to dissolution, nothingness –

Desire feeds upon the abyss, the void -

These attempts, though useless,

logically flawed and technically

impossible are the plastic flowers of

our desire, with our empty hands,

we wish what we think we must have,

but know that we can never have,

An insurrection against nothingness

Impossible revolutions

Open up this place of free existence.

All desire is ironic.

Desire erupts ecstatic, it strikes

To negotiate a new social contract
in a deeply traumatised and fractured society
within less than seven months is hard enough
to do so in a third that time is
virtually impossible, the report said.
An Israeli aircraft has fired three missiles
at Palestinian resistance fighters
in the Gaza Strip without causing any casualties
Witnesses said three fighters from the
Islamic group Hamas fled as the missiles struck
No one was hurt.
A rocket and mortar barrage by fighters
hours later killed two Palestinian farmers
and a Chinese labourer working
at a Jewish settlement in Gaza
Iraqi soldiers taken captive

Wednesday 08 June 2005, 23:01 Makka Time, 20:01 GMT

US-led forces are yet to restore order in Iraq

Related:
Iraqi Sunnis seek more representation
Iraqi officials killed
US not safer after Iraq war, poll says

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We have come very far since Ginsberg announced the Fall of America.

As is, It has not fallen – or, at least that America of the current brand illusion has not yet fallen.

We can read Ginsberg as indicating the end of summer, if there ever was one.

We still even await this rite of spring – perhaps we have wasted the dawn.

The fall, in the case of America, is the beginning of retreat and implosion.

It reminds one of an end of every order of things.

In the case of America, the early winter forces us to recollect the trauma of its birth and sustenance, and the lack thereof, in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

The American experiment failed as it could never realize its democratic potential – it remained res publica – killed by the autonomous logics of representation which danced upon the waves of a violence-based ownership (Gewalteigenthum).

America could never trust itself as it was afflicted with the trauma of its origin – a trauma which underwent recurrent repetition in the trauma of its logistical operation.

America was possessed by a Lady Macbeth Complex in which it sought, sleepwalking, to wash away the blood on its hands – “Out damned spot!” – it failed in its compensating strategy as it used new blood to wash off old blood.

America’s obsession with its own guilt translated in real terms into a compulsion to act, to build – to bury – its frenetic production and consumption of gunpowder and soap – a psychosis of exclusion and purification (perfection).

In more contemporary terms, this compulsion for cleanliness has translated into a panoptic surveillance of the territory and personnel of “America”, i.e., “Patriot” Act.

As with the Nazis, “America” seeks, as a repetition of the trauma, to expunge, excrete from itself that which is non-American – a term defined tentatively from the “origin”.

Explains why so many Asian and Middle Eastern peoples are fleeing to the Canadian border to escape the surveillance and incarceration of American Justice.

This fixation upon cleanliness and hygiene in this way may also reflect the white supremacist character of e pluribus unum, once again, a repetition of its trauma.

Then again, e pluirbus unum was replaced by In God We Trust in the 20^th Century.

And they dare to call it a godless century!  Shame on you Nietzsche!

We are confronted by a situation in which, against all counsel, “America” has become an Empire.

Yet, it is clear that the announcement, the naming of an event, is also the sign and oration of its demise.

Indeed, this demise is a second death as one imago, ideal is replaced by another.

that is all you are

and will ever be

born to fuck

and bleed

enticing the weaker sex

with your charms

to enter into

a murderous

futile pact

You need to bring

yourself into fruition

but you need

men for that

to bring the fruits,

the children, fated to die,

into the world

Your vanity! Your irony!

You are only poetry.

Mani sang that

children were captive

spirits stolen from

the heavenly realm

but what if we do not

need any more stolen lives?

There are too many already

Either be true to the earth

and die from the fertility

of earth and woman

or, turn away from the earth

from fertility and the captivation

of the suffocating earth, as

Gaia suffered from the

imprisonment of her

children in her womb

at the crossroads, a spirit

whispers that there are three paths

survival, death and creativity

the monotonous will to live

and its narrow expectations

incites us toward death

as a welcome release from boredom

the trauma of Eros and Thanatos

The third path is a

turn from mere fertility

toward the satyric dance

of excess and expenditure

we need no longer to save the seed

the dark horizons of the bad infinite

engulf our faith in mere reproduction

the woman who wishes to be other

than the prescription of fertility

provokes the storm of abandonment

Woman is no longer just one thing

She is many things, many classes, networks

The image of the mother has its supplements

a caste system of feminine differance

the whores in the bedroom look

across the great divide to

the angels in the garden

sex and  death impossibly ironic

perverse proliferations  in

the wake of the death of God

a seething excession of

erotic simulacrum

the whores, those

of the other feminine

dancing far from the

mother and the angel

the feminine lies in fragments

upon the sacrificial space of violence

of birth, life and death

of mere reproduction, survival

the anxiety of inexorable death

Your vanity did this, your wish

to come to fruition, to fulfill

that primal aspect of your possibility

But – did you ever think about

what you have done?

Thrown your children into the

jaws of death – you are a murderess!

What do we do with a killer?

Do we not punish her, chastise her

as was Justine, punished for her

virtue, for her faith in the will to live

There is indeed enough punishment

to go around for these whores as

the sport of humiliation becomes

a household word and ritual

nymphs stalk the streets

seeking cash, cigarettes, drugs

and alcohol, an escape from

the treadmill of indoctrination

instillation of the first image

neuroses of sex and death

They do not hear the whispers

of the other path, or they

are trained to extinguish

these feelings of rebellion

from a life of mere irony

the image of the mother

is mere irony, the impossible

Woman is in fragmentation

the father is dead

the law of the father

is a ghost which haunts

the weaker sense as he

wallows in his emasculation

no longer of any significance

with the fragmentation of woman

man also undergoes dispersion,

displacement, substitution

Man is in fragmentation

Woman is no longer the idyll

but the trough of ecstasy

but also the pristine repressed

virgin, the practical partner,

the sister, mother, and aunt

I am not supposed to desire

my mother or daughter

I substitute these longings.

longings that have been

ascribed to me by science

to the other female, the

other feminine, toward

woman in fragmentation

It should be said: paying financiers

more than a trillion, whatever currency -

and not asking for it back —

is bad management -

but, as a vampire, sucking back

this revenue from the life of the people -

is not a proper agenda for Res Publica -

since this is just another money scam

for hypocritical theft and murder-

- yes, I went there -

murder, or would

you prefer, with your

preference schedule,

Genocide instead?

War Crimes?

Crimes against Humanity?)

Do you even care?

Your soliciter will sort it out….?

no one ever says this,

at least in this sense,

but the 1′s and 0′s go a

whole of hell lot slower

when we are at work…..

we think that it is merely

an existential distortion

but it is really the case:

the clocks move slower

when we are at work…

the rest of our time

is spent watching

corporate advertisements

the intensification of

labour & life

exploitation

deception

we tear each other to shreds

as the masters laugh

& eat our children

the sado-masochistic

infrastructure of power

plays itself out as we

lick the master’s balls

ask him to beat us,

steal from us, &

then have to go without

in the bargain…

& keep paying & paying,

selling our grandchildren

into slavery…

the past 70 years was a mirage

a legend, a fantasy – exploded

we are being laughed at….

but, they are not gods

& we know who they are

grasps crisps &

sardines from

her bag

Reveals supple

breasts wrapped

in her jumper

Political Crimes

unspoken

She eats sardines &

tomoto sauce

on a cracker

with her legs

spread in jeans &

cowboy boots

She drinks from

a water jug &

licks her lips

another cracker

& sardine

as she talks &

chews wiping

her mouth with

her hand

She stares into space,

leaning over to an

invisible other

to whom she gives

a portion of her meal

The smell of sardines

penetrates the cabin

dead sardines

pressed into a can

to be eaten with tomato

sauce & crackers

She has spilled

tomato sauce

on her jumper

as she smiles at other women

laughing (who are

talking about sex

with blushing faces)

Cardiff Central

She moves to an

abandoned table

revealing her lovely

son and daughter

They sit together

around the table

eating crackers

& sardines

She speaks on her phone

about knibbling

sensible food & snacks

asks her love what

he? wants to do for dinner

The boy shouts, “Chips!”

They will see each other again

in an hour & a half

The sun moves

toward twilight

over the beckoning

Welsh hills shining

in the last moments

of golden radiance

In tattered letters

on the daughter’s

hoody reads

the word

“Republic”

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