Do ‘your implants eat you • [Do] / soul and mystery: appreciate your depth’? I mean, ‘I was or am / in the chasm / refracted though the dream had shut [...] blind by white lights’ or in ‘the mine shaft.’ The kittenista is born from a bloody egg on the plastic table. At the end of ‘Step 2,’ we encounter an anonymous male: ‘his eyes glaze over describing himself / as intelligent on match.com.dead.’ ‘Swarms! / we will bang / into the machine & truth shall be crushed by water / or something surging Nervous walls / with their cheap metal flickers’, ‘fake garden, motionless plastic curves,’ ‘the orchids are fake,’ even the ‘stupid fake island’, ‘there’s a boat & and it has dead noise / & there, in sand and you hear dead / sand / Radio, when it’s not human.’ I mean, ‘the most Pathetic poem is small people on fire’, like ‘Tiny dogs on ice all round Tiny, Tiny / dogs / / & howls’, as cerebral twixt your giving opal, riot into / lockjaw guns / gurney handles / Spread white tips to / wire distressed carnal lode renown: / if there’s a gaudy spirit now during the / café parlour, hurt vibes pick the scum. ‘Roger roger eye ball reflector,’ ‘just because of the wind / because of the wind’, ‘we’re doing everything we can you guys are doing a great / job’, ‘does anybody else need me’, why have they closed the emergency / i don’t understand. SO the spit lips tongue gums dispatched sonic warning / of raw mucosa in action, a map swam forward to meet it, / where it split to a fix and a ban the map split too, down now / to rest on each side in signal lock (‘you will finally learn when / will you that red and green are just shades of yellow’). When I close my laptop, it goes to sleep. It’s a curiously domestic metaphor but it also implies that sleep in humans and other animals is just a kind of low-power standby mode. Last year, Apple announced a twist on this idea: a new feature for the Mac OS called “Power Nap”. Using Power Nap, your computer can do important things even while asleep, receiving updates and performing backups. Sometimes I have to stay in bed all day because of it, this maddening weakness, hollow nausea. I’ll try and explain what I mean by “fuck you”. The High Street. Walthamstow, or anywhere else. Everyone gazing at their reflections in all of the empty shop windows, weird technicians digging up the pavements. Don't think this is delirium, or paranoia. Well maybe it is, but … Comedy. History. Masks and plague sores. Try to understand Medusa to be simply the accumulated historical pressure of pure bullshit, or molecules and radio gas, all of it forming a mass intracranial solid neoplasm. Yeh, I know, I’m one of those people. Sometimes my vocabulary makes me cringe. But if those shop windows, those reflections operate as some kind of safety valve, then they are also, put simply, the visible points of an inverted world nailed onto this one, violent, unresting, an insect system where each abandoned hour of what was once called “socially necessary labour time” becomes detached, on its own orbit, like some absolute planet, but habitable, the way an abandoned office space or a derelict private home is habitable. But are these teenage exorcists really empowered by the Almighty, or merely by Brynne’s father, a failed televangelist named Reverend Bob? In our new film, the girls and Reverend Bob give us exclusive access to their tour of Ukraine, during which they attempt to save the souls of recovering drug addicts and exorcise people's “sexually transmitted demons” by playing field recordings from a distant planet, one that's inhabited by bio-mechanical mutant varieties of flying, crawling, slithering, walking, climbing beasts, in a jungle filled with exotic and terrifying plants capable of consuming humans attracted to the irresistible odours they emit, which resemble chocolate, and Chanel No.5. Here, one-eyed, furry babies come gurgling and crying into the world, wrenched from vomiting mechanical-human hybrids, watched over by hovering robo-doctors. There was a baby cockroach in my lemonade at lunch. Chamayou immediately acknowledges that most strikes are ‘signature strikes’ against individuals whose names are unknown but for whom a ‘pattern of life analysis’ has detected persistent anomalies in normal rhythms of activity, which are read as signs (‘signatures’) of imminent threat. I’ve described this as a militarized rhythmanalysis, even a weaponized time-geography, in ‘From a view to a kill’ (DOWNLOADS tab).
[Note: Sources: JBR; Jennifer Cooke, *Not Suitable For Domestic Sublimation, and David Spittle, quoted in Spittle’s review of same, at Hix Eros 1; JBR; Frances Kruk, Down You Go; Or, Négation De Bruit, and Jimmy Cummins, quoted in Cummins’ review of same, at Hix Eros 1; Francesca Lisette “Parent Waiver”, in Teens, quoted in Richard Barrett’s review of same at Hix Eros 1; Holly Pester, Katrina Sequence, quoted in Scott Thurston, review of same, at Hix Eros 1; Mike Wallace-Hadrill, Team You, as quoted in Mia Prefab-Chanson’s review of Wallace-Hadrill’s Instar Zero & Team You, at Hix Eros 1; Steven Poole, “Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep by Jonathan Crary: Sleep is a standing affront to capitalism”, at New Statesman, 18 Jul 013 (a review of Crary’s 24/7); Sean Bonney, “Letter Against Hunger / A Foodstamp for the Palace”, at Abandoned Buildings, 29 Jul 013; Charlet Duboc, “Teenage Exorcists - Part 1”, at Vice, 29 Jul 013; JBR; “Rashad Becker – Traditional Music of Notional Species Vol. I (PAN)”, at Include Me Out, 29 Jul 013; Gary Indiana, “A Few Days in Bulgaria”, at Vice, 29 Jul 013; Derek Gregory, “Theory of the drone 3: Killing grounds”, at Geographical Imaginations, 29 Jul 013 (re Grégoire Chamayou, Théorie du drone)]