liberation in three parts
THE LIBERATION OF THE WORLD
“Amok” is the most beautiful word that we have. What better? Under Amok, Empire is finally seen true. Is discovered as mere opening out onto void. As the worst kind of tulpa. Real life? Elsewhere. Our slavish despair is soon transmuted—into joyous rage. We find the others. We form secret & not-so-secret societies. In hushed whispers, we conspire. We plan & we dream & we laugh. We embrace the poetry of the riot and the seduction of the flame. We exist as watching tiger eye on the face of a grinning Marquis de Sade. A happy Sade, this one, masturbating with joy beneath the burning of all cathedral. There is no question that this capitalist tomb-world, this land of the still- living dead, must be totally, irreversibly denied. But we need a true collective will to widen those shimmering cracks. So feed that rebellious egregore then, treat it love it well. Expose shining predator teeth with a promise, gaze out on this darkening world with a wide owl gaze. Feel—I mean really, truly feel—at the furry outline of that most debased of entities—“the present moment”. Touch that bashful moment-creature with your red ruby tongue, lick softly at its squirming octopi textures. Ok. So far so good. The choice before us now is this—either we squeeze our Autonomy into fullest possible existence—or we squeal like a pig and be damned. Festival is coming. But so is Cataclysm. Yet we have learned to become adaptable. When Empire compresses us, we change our course. We may swim upstream, or fly inside earth’s belly. We may ejaculate bold underneath icecaps for a time. We may turn suddenly pirate, sail for years on the rising toxic seas. What are we? We are shapeshifters, my friend. Hidden Mythologicals living under the yoke of a Late-Capitalist Yaldabaoth. We play an old trickster game with him. Hide-and-seek-and-devour. We are Lycanthropes, all. What is our deepest desire? To depose of the old fool Thanatos. And in his place, to crown our own—MARVELOUS EROS. A queen who is not a queen, is what she will be. A crowned anarchist. A strange vitality may squirt out from her snakeshifting braids then, yes, with a hum like a grasshopper, with a hum like a traveller. & no doubt a wild animal joy will spread out strong among us all— satellite-milked & deepened beneath her warm lunar gaze. Just like butterlight. & maybe we’ll learn to swim within that thick epileptic joy, living as classless astral ponies on the curve of some milky way fluff. & our genitalia will expand, sprout butterfly wings, become illuminated there. Yes perhaps I’ll finally even learn how to dance. Who really knows, eh? Revolution runs on a surrlogic all its own, and a static prophecy is a dead prophecy. But we have seen the tiny ruptures of revolt spreading & we have beheld the circus revolt’s lengthening slit. Empire, it seems, has been loosing its nerve. And beneath Empire’s shivering halfcorpse, there sleep a thousand new worlds. A thousand possibilities. Those sleeping worlds have begun, of late, to stir…
THE LIBERATION OF THE WORD
The liberation of the word & the liberation of the world are codependent. Revolutionary writing should not by dry grammatically pure disinterested or unpoetic. It should not be written in the cold vantage point of an absent silent god. Anarchists we call ourselves—& yet we still gaze out towards PapaMama Syntax for permission, still we coo. We control & we deny. We holdback the shy yet flickeringwet orifice of imagination’s best trickster Wildness. We trim out all the fat. The subgrowth of the automatic voice is ignored. And we feel smugsatisfied. We feel Well Polished & Dirt-Free. Yet our deepest inner gaze has been ushered away, exiled. Persona non grata. In the name of King Logic we have stupidly embraced our veryown own steel coffin. We are complicit in Empire, because our texts propagate Empire’s tomb-world existence. Where, tell me, does the joyful Aardvark reside within these dull political texts? Where swims the spittle? Our fragile vitality has been deadduck’ed & dulled beneath our own traitorous hands…
Comprehension & realism & the perils of the academic flounder?—these are not our tools, and they never will be. Abandon & disperse, O revolutionists. We need liberated words now. Words that burn & scream & moan & drip. Red words that birth, & blue words that kill. We need desperate, life-giving forest words. We need non-human words. If the longing is there—& the ear is clear —& the blackened typewriter is willing—then everything we imagine is made possible.
Life waits for us in Dream. Dream’s hands? They are outstretched, overfilled. She has gathered for us (expectorated) an infinity of feverish new texts on Liberation & Desire. Still unseen & unwritten. A heavy human hand—an openfold anarchist Medium— is needed for release. Will you, or won’t you? If set free, these feral texts of Dream will spin out like terrorist-flowers, they will vibrate with & in all the unknowns. They will storm us & they will seduce us with their overflowings & their pleasurepains. & Yaldabaoth’s Empire will shudder & disperse.
In a truly revolutionary text, the words make love.
THE LIBERATION OF THE MIND
Octopus squirts across the birth belly of the bledred cyst. A captain amongst sparrows. Decayed cross section breaks, altering newborn underneath beam of uncontrollable light. Baby of the 7,000 anarchist junebug. Born born. Elongation of plastics; worm-suckered cellophane?—for us, these are no longer. Running ragged, yes, all over those termite suitboys! Our treasured undermind? Her thoughts are to be freed too, my friend. A mind untethered, that’s big “step number 3”. Or 1 or is it maybe 2? The order doesn’t matter, and neither does the distance. Embrace all. Insurrection is a red rose, a golden trickster rose found deep within the alchemical anus of the layered Purple Frog. But don’t forget that good ol’ headmixture, lad, that ol’ tried & true & marvelous. Don’t forget that special insurrectionary spice. Dream on, Proletariat! Yes, certain murky daemons of the mind have been discovered recently, have been pinpointed as sole powersource for each&every healthy revolution. As the deepest, darkest light that stands mutinous within those brightwhite splashing cores. Surrealism, yes, and occultism too, & lots of bewildering, authentic fucks. Unshackle those pierced-bird intuitions, O Karl, release the sandgrain mythos of your fursoak loverboy irrationals! Become the psyche-kaleidoscopic. A revolutionist’s mind will be convulsive, OR IT WILL NOT BE AT ALL. & neither will that waiting New World. The Domain of the Possible? A fool’s game, that. An ugly, life-denying game. Beneath the hawk-eye’d stupidity-gaze of cynical Oldman Reason, the effective exercising of the sorcerer-insurgent’s True Will is lessened. May become irreversibly broken. This, every practicing magician knows well. Reason crowned becomes informant, scab, & narcissist. Becomes our own inner Yaldabaoth—& the enemy of all magickal workings. And Revolution—that is the grandest working of them all.