E-Bugs (atog) wrote in obscenism,

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It's been so very long. Poor Obscenism.

Atavistic Countdown

Feeling scraped against the concrete sky, muscles and bones and minds exposed to the harsh social elements. One wonders if we're truly god-less if we're so clearly god-damned. Bile is no longer a viable response; anger is a waste of heat for Economic Man. How, then, is it possible to be a Disruptor? "Keep your Invisible Hand off my Body Politic" has proven to be impotent. Syphilis used to be just a little faster than living; now the disease is just as slow as its quarry. How does a dying breeder tell the difference? A piece of paper can only be folded eleven times before resistance becomes too great. The tragedy is that the Modern Monster is not so strong. Beowulf has been hoard-king for the longest time; where is our sleeping dragon? Rings and torques and vorpal blades can't tempt it in the end. One is not as easily impressed as Two would like, though Three often satisfies and little more. Can Eleven be any better? A sudden impact might make it so; shock sells in the most ideal sense. How far down can a neckline dip before the FCC sends a goon squad? Mutilation and humiliating competition will be just fine. Tears of misery are tastier than vinegar on your Debauchery Sandwich. What is to be Done? some Russian asshole once asked. He liked personal responsibility in the affirmative, but such forethought is illegal now. Neoliberalism: bad for humans, great for anthropologists. Parabolic sentences and Bourdieu's thrice-damned "Structured, Structuring Structures" are all well and good, but whose agency does such discourse serve? Data constrain far more than they liberate. Declarative statements are a kind of vociferous death by fiat, especially when the most powerful assertion is the "maybe" of our speculative fictions. What is rhetorical? The only ingestible not yet proven to kill us is TV, and even the cathode-ray tube is guaranteed to make a man a pillar of salt. The Ten O'clock News is what killed our old-school Sodomites; now, the new guys are the hosts. Moral relativism is undermining the tenuous subject-position of the audience, and isn't that much more entertaining anyway? What the Lord giveth, the Lord's Great Ape castigates us for taking. Hunger is the unforgivable sin and the holiest of baptisms, all rolled up in one penis-enhancing pill. "This is Bob. Bob is doing well. And you're not, because your dick is inverted. Aren't you ashamed?" Shame has become the spice of life, now that nobody can taste Chinese murder peppers anymore. The slow progression toward real and true numbness has made pain junkies of us all. As experiential density disperses like a noxious fume through downloadable culture, solid ground becomes an historic supposition. There is no longer any irony in the realization that the Global Community is neither of those things, for both realms have been proven fragile fairy stories. Barefoot and predicated on narcotic little lies. The comfort of the coma is far too risky for the faint of heart, and Florida won't let your brain die. Psychic release can't be guaranteed when the individual is permanently threatened with Heaven. With so much at stake, the poor ethical being can hardly afford a furtive laugh at the justice of it all. The road to Hell, after all, is paved with good inventions. And skulls, probably. Cruel conditions, certainly, but never a disappointment. Provable reality cannot be counted on as readily. The Modern Math upon which all these silly statements of purposelessness are founded is merely true in terms of statistical pedantics. If love cannot be counted and described as a function of degrees Celsius, to what extent is it a currency at all? How much can you buy for a twenty percent likelihood of a dollar? This terrible calculus of memory reduces the Classical plot line to a description of the Cosine wave. How would Marx define the means of experiential production? Is the average Joe just a wage-slave in somebody else's autobiography factory? It is increasingly difficult for the Proletariat to seize the mill when they can't tell who owns it until the process is over. The inevitable cataclysm need not prefigure a rebirth of any Euclidean order. The All-Seeing Pyramid does not have a pinnacle; just the empty space where the four-sided eye was meant to rest. Yet the stink-lines of oppression radiate and reflect as though all were right with the universe. Chernobyl sits heavily on our shoulders, as if it signified something greater than a lump of molten carbon and an inside-out orphan. Cynicism used to keep us warm at night; now post-plutonium heat has denuded the frustration feather bed of all its function. It's no wonder we can't write in complete sentences when all of our High Lofty Crushers collapse under their own ironic weight. The blame rests on no one in particular and somebody you all know. Purposelessness was the rallying cry of a generation that accidentally go something accomplished. Diatribes against the formation of opinions fail self-servingly, it seems. There is not yet even a terminology for the next step, as the dialogue is heard backwards and from underwater. What the world needs now is just something to need. The human creature is entirely too well taken-care-of in an environment where our booze is delivered. Used to be, a fella had to run his own still or strain his own Sterno to have a religious experience. How much can the Holy Advent of the Bigger Bang be crushed and digested before it becomes just another reason to surrender? Quitting has ceased to be a revolutionary act when domination is by mutual consent. Time may be running out, but nobody likes to look at what comes after time. Decent, descent and dissent will become the self-same state of being, and no amount of Puff Daddy pseudo-political posturing will make a bit of difference. The French are patenting their own ethnic genes; there is no more hope and no more despair. But me, I'm alright. I found me a broken bicycle chain today, and I'm going to beat on a hobo. I just hope the hobo doesn't turn out to be me this time.
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