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letra de self-(affect/efface) - cryptodira

all rise and behold:
he who raises and murders ontology
every morning he is on four legs, and
every evening on three
what mediates these ends—when the sun is
burning brightest—is lost
as too is all of history
what is lost: the patience, the labor
and the suffering of the negative

from his sin proceeds existence
a violence transubstantiated into the
social bond, and the beauty of antigone
in her own right, she becomes a second earth
which we imitate to save us from the first
in the place of the primordial earth
she is sacrificed symbolically—thus the
symbol can finally make itself arbitrary
she’s sacrificed on the altar of the colony, so
her body can be broken up jealously
into compartmentalized territory
an energy bounded; both to precociously
synthesize it, and to suppress its femininity

the ends of efficiency eclipse
the means of happiness and health
performativity reigns in a manic teleology
the wretched of the earth are de-personified
and reduced to nothing but technology
bellowing out from the chasm of
his churning belly is a quiet voice
calmly, it makes a claim about
the truth of his utility; but the
truth can only yet be revealed half honestly:
“blood and misery stick to the triumphs of society
the rest is ideology.” -horkheimer

the rest is what is found(ing/-in) me
clinging seemingly hopelessly to hope
i am an appearance
i am splitting everything in two, like egos or the red sea

find me please, someone
anyone lack(ing/-in) the truth
i am powerless
i am composing the shadow of the very life i protest

each breath of this life is spent wasting itself
i live a life which has outlived its own ratio
and all it has left to imitate is the very
death which took place in the past
that past—that debt—is my will and inheritance
(it/will) is what is found(ing/-in) me
ecstatically taking pleasure from the pain
like turning water into wine to stimulate its profit rate
find me calling for the rest:
a ‘rest’ which is both margin and repose
both residuals of suffering
and return into nothingness
traces which are drowned out by floods
the floods which rush in after parting
the sea between what-is and what-ought-to-be
the floods which i nonetheless fantasize
in the very act of producing a totalizing thought
to arrive at totality: everything must be
broken down, recomposed and accounted for
the smallest units for totality which
we are given by the sacrificial cult:
break it all down into pennies, infants and letters

these splintered units are the very same
with which bodies have been unified
unified under a name: the name of a patriarch
the name is logos, which was
projected into the beginning
logos, whose name is law

despite this totalizing impulse, the world will overflow the word

because the ends are lost, the only vision
left to alienated consciousness is
the discontinuing of everything
how gentle is the fantasy of beginning again?
but tyranny still rests here, in latency
for what is this but an apocalyptic fantasy?
so, try this failed intention again

in the meantime, the self-same is reproduced
multitudes broken down to one docile soul
as in any system, silence is preferable
multitudes recomposed to conform to forms
the eternal forms of blessed anamnesis
the forms in which i hide from unforeseen consequence
in those forms, life is emptied of content
life becomes hollow, and all becomes vanity

all rise and behold his body
which chains us in the horror of our own
we lack the forms after our half-honest disavowal
so now lack has become a form
we feel nothing on the skin we sacrificed
we feel nothing, except the passage of time

found(ing/-in) me, hope and despair unequally
i am splitting everything in two to grasp this wrong reality

find me, someone, anyone tell me
that it is not (y)our fault. i will lend my voice
to suffering so that it may speak honestly
all the while fearing my obsession with
justice will destroy my sincerity

intercourse blindly made history
and history dialecticized itself
it made itself into dialogue
beautiful telos folded into brute causality

from where came this pit? this hollow? this hole?
t’was when the idea encroached on the soul
the idea of peace: all tranquil, all calm
it-self waging war on all not embalmed

the idea is whole; seducing us so
the idea is death, in wait to unfold

from when did we need? from when did demand?
between these two modes, a force reprimands
our clay-addled foot. a shade in pursuit
of all which gives pause, or lets us take root

desires its name. it conjures its own
its seeds shadow all. in each, they are sown

- cryptodira

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