Fugue Life

Struggle to get up, get a job, go to work, fight, resist, regroup, recycle juice cartons, reconfigure, bring the whole fucking thing to a grinding halt. Struggle to give a fuck about anything at all. Struggle to care. Self and other. Still movement, though. Still liveliness, still floating in a synthetic void. Still lost. But then.. But then what… Drink, drugs, death, sneakers, fucking. Fuck it all away. Fuck it to death. Sneakers, hats, dogs, cats, flat screens. Dog and cat memes. Wandering, lost, alone, monadic. Too shallow, hollow, rent, to be tragic. How to be social, how to reform the social so that we can finally get beyond it. Put that fucker to bed once and for all. Freedom in thought, free to be chased through a maze by ghosts of the self. Frozen only in the medusa face of the subject under, in, through capitalism. Crapsmashitalism. Crasspitalshitjism. Bleurgh.


 Image pinched from Eraserhead @ Like Regular Chickens

Freedom of speech? Policed only by grammar, syntax, language, meaning, representation, censors, sensory apparatus. What could be said anyway. I don’t even want to look in your eyes, stench of failed souls. What then. Get high like bird. Try to express yourself in the prison of words. Clear eyed recognition of what they are being, doing to us. Another fag. Coffee. Fuck, I don’t know, a good cry, wank, pot noodle, old whatshisnames on the telly. Not great weapons for a war. Big tearing baseline? Better. Fast forward leisure for wage-labour. We found something else down there though. Precious? Maybe. Faster, new ways you know, new ways of coming together. The face-fuck rhythm of the work week’s going to scatter us. Spin us round. Too disoriented to give… a single… Solicitude, solitude, servitude, a serving of french fries with that. What do you people want from me/us. Protestant socialists, working class nepotism, careerist revolutionaries, single-issue stop this or don’t stop that quangos, professional activists, pop-up pop-culture anarchy, a job in an imperialist NGO. Dig your own grave or take your place in the mass one. It’s murder out there.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: