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Akemi Nov 2018
on and on and on
stupid machines
speak past one another
an automated stupor

brain ****** bourgeoisie
incapable of escaping
their own idiot refrain

demented on chop
and immanence

a closed horizon
i just had one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.

i was hanging with a friend, when a bunch of their flatmate's friends came in and started smoking chop. i took a hit and immediately sunk into my own body. i receded into an expansive, empty space. from this blackness, i could hear a conversation taking place between the flatmate's friends, over and over, each repeat a perfect automation of the prior -- the exact same words, intonations and pauses -- an endless cycle amongst human machines.

guattari talks of existential refrains: collective socio-cultural habits, that constitute one's subjectivity. trapped in the stultifying capitalist machine, one becomes a miniature automaton to the processes one enacts in daily existence. one's consciousness mirrors the rote, repetitive banality of capitalist existence. one becomes as mindless as the instruments one utilises and the commodities one produces and consumes.

here, in this endless loop, subjectivity reformed its own constitutive stasis. headless life grasped forgotten familiarity unto demented stability, the same boring story no one cared enough about to respond to, so it was repeated, over and over, to the same response. a dead, stupid machine speaking to other dead, stupid machines.

and from what i could pick up, these were bourgeoisie, property-owners and managers, cosmopolitan rulers of the world. these dumb ******* were the ones running the world into the ground.

i finally understood why my friend was so misanthropic and why she was leaving this hellhole. too ****** from the chop, all i could do was go out into the rain, clutch my friend's arm, and gape at the clouds. i've never been so terrified for a friend, and so utterly crushed at the state of the world.

worst of all, i'm not sure if any of this even happened. the chop may have sent me into a psychotic state. perhaps, i simply experienced a normal conversation, and all conversations are this horrifying. or perhaps, i did meet drugfucked bourgeois machines.

i don't know.
Akemi Nov 2018
worn out alone
three years a headless drone through feverish lights
endless tunnel
ouroboros burning pavement
the whole ******* drive

make me whole with your absence
i’ll burn my lungs through and through
and wear the scent of your clothes till there’s nothing left
but radiant waste
of course you love her
the neurotic can only love that which has already disappeared
and forsaken ambivalence
Akemi Nov 2018
never wanted to feel a thing
blunt my skin on the door frame
sink through my sheets

an open mouth for candescence
friends you lose touch with
acid and lost time
because it hurts to feel anything
so wear yourself detached
lose everyone
Akemi Nov 2018
the rot that filled your lungs
three years without breath
sinking to the floor.

people you love
without knowing why.

because it hurts to be near
like some divide
searching for heat in open summer.

an outline without interior.
i missed you before you'd even left.
Akemi Nov 2018
k.
slow burn through the frame
you shrink with every breath
laughing in your sleep.
Akemi Nov 2018
I have to use words sparingly now. Things used to be different. Before surfaces there was depth. Before identities there was self. Words go into words; wasted breath, white noise, mute hum.

We camped beneath the stars ten billion summers ago, the park down from your house. We fed the horses with grasses we picked, our hands soft with dew and lust.

I miss every inch of your being. I miss your wretched shadow spun lugubrious in Sisyphian recurrence. The slow burn of your love as it fled black char, the whole ******* forest dead.

I’m sick of spitting smoke, but words elude me. I lack the form of your departure. I’ve been trying to flee for years and now it’s happened. I’ll die astride the world immaterial and worthless.

What’s holy is dead. I swallowed it up with the branches that lay beneath you the day we kissed in the forest after school. The last trace of eternity passing into myth.

Eternity passing in a moment.
I wrote about you so many times I became a Lacanian. Every cut a new formation. Because I never truly wanted to be rid of you. I just wanted to forget my compulsions. So I could discover you anew. So I could discover you elsewhere.
Akemi Oct 2018
blind bliss
the empty contour of yesterday
turns on itself

jets to oblivion
paper streams celebrate
the century’s end

thus piled
at the foot of the terminal
a mound of teeth

and convalescence in search of illness.
all the hollow men
search for gold
in the horizon

new markets for a growth
that reward the richest

insatiable thirst to fill what cannot be filled.

//

to survive under capitalism
the bourgeoisie must make a profit
through the exploitation of new resources, labourers and markets
the opening of new industries
which attract further investors
until the industry becomes bloated
and competition drives the price of the commodities they produce so low
that the market is flooded with too many goods for consumers to purchase

in this irrational excess
artificial scarcity is deployed
which amounts to the destruction of commodities
like the pouring of butter into a pit in the ghettos of britain
as starving families watch without comprehension
because its more economically viable to destroy what can't be sold
than to give it away
because then where would your consumers be?

we live in a world of abundance
that is kept from us
for the sake of profit

because once a commodity is free, it's worthless
and so are we
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