Wednesday, January 25, 2012
page 105
tattoos with your name on their legs hairy legs with ink it is possible to say certain things and not others rejecting the physicality of the body drawn from the surface manifestations I have rejected your agency you have no power against me I am your nightmare and your savior it doesn’t matter how you speak to me I am here in the flesh and I won’t let you push me away this time like you have so many time before unconstrained creative essences they flow between us my focus is on your body of power you are concerned with the issue of embodiment how you essence fills the void the distance between us is disappearing you are not a romantic subject substitute you are real and in the flesh doomed to be the plaything of power I have denied your essential self that part of you that lives beyond this world not as a docile body but as a reflexive living speaking being personal identities emerge in a battlefield your body is natural and overlaid with cultural values I can see through this disguise how they see you does not matter to me I see you through the eyes of perfection through the eyes of the animal I move your body by channeling your desires flesh upon flesh although you are socially constructed in your discourse and actions you exist none the less as a thinking feeling subject and social agent capable of resistance keep telling yourself this over and over you look just like a human you talk like them and even have feelings and emotions like humans you are seeking a history searching for your origins must you die for your history these little touches of solitude as she holds a picture of her mother holding her as a child thus she knew she had a history this picture was her proof of a time before her before she began failing to access the symbolic nature of her past she cannot grasp the meaning of herself she does not exist outside of her mind she is a creature of the pastiche a corrosive rain which wears things away we are the waste produced by the system the surplus human beings that society has no place for they will crush us if we let them their desire is to destroy our spirit our will to live that is why our culture glamorizes the suicide they want us to follow in their tracks do you know where I live I live in the gutter in the cesspool in the waste of the postindustrial city the name of the city doesn’t matter they all look the same they all are falling apart living off the past glories of a dead world our world is already dead we are dead the walking dead our existence is living off the garbage joining the eclectic crowd of faceless people living on the garbage heap picking the garbage sorting the garbage becoming garbage someone should set fire to this world and burn it all up a pop cultural extravaganza tonya adds the exoticism to the assemblage of outmoded pieces becoming an obscenity total transparent visibility we are living in the ecstasy of communication a twist in the relationship between the real and its reproduction you are a perfect descriptive machine as long as I keep you full of oil and gasoline you run smoothly with no problems you recreate my past reality not the real world but the world of my memory I realize this and you my machine realize this thus we ignore that gaps in understanding between us we pretend that our interactions are human no distinction between real and copy remains no longer producing the limits of being we have failed to enter the symbolic order condemned to live a perpetual present the experience of
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