excerpts from: O Beautiful Death™ A Rage Device Index

observable dual hemispheric binaural spectroscopy:  when branes collide

( the first cosmo-ecological inkling of the manifest destiny miscalculation )


chaffed.


             chaffed cosmos.


sure, but isn’t this a biopic about zombie astrophysicists?

or a low-budget science documentary about the multiverse?

double-check your constellations app

refresh

your screen


your semantic atlas   hung with hue

everett’s cartography

& in shades of night   falling

in sheaths of thought

the oaring   of it


its depth & wideness


 distant,  thus

   voiceless


        “falling





stars”



red shifting into        oblivion?


no,

no hubble eureka, no euphoria


only   the observable

anthropomorphic inflated territorial subjectivity reflex—


“watch it, man

you’re rubbing my other brane”




identity crises in the toxological visual ecstasy of the ever-modulating echochamber™

( read my lingus: no new lapsus )


O anti-vaxxers in these medicated system pendulums

we only want to revel in the side-effects of your feel-good sleep meds

behold   the heated knives of our buttery information spread

behold   the smart bomb progeny & our chaffed ontological distempers

behold   the technological fabrique of sur-veillance & sous-veillance

behold   the comatos’d tapestry & our hunt-of-the-unicorn bloodlust

& these are only the words for the numbers ?!


O look at you, undersigned & overdosed in numeral wefts of systemic blur-rings

within your hyper-individuated manifestos of your socially mediated feelings

within your corporate social media personhood, “like” your favorite companies

within your updates & alerts, while your entropic gear’d cogs of death™

spin, spin, spin


O look at you, waiting

all ewok-like, dizzy & giddy with tiny ewok-horns bleating deep state anthems


[ bup bup bup baaaaaaa!  buuuuup buuuuup buuuuup baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! ]


you’re the special ops twitterized privatization surgical trauma transplanter

you’re the invert’d spirits of jacob riis still wandering the lower east-side

you’re 19thC realists, the holy ghosts of some third person’s omniscience

& with your logos flashlights™, your radical 19thC “points of view”

morph

  into flies feeding on the eyes of dead animals

( in some peripheral otherwhere.  in a parched field, maybe? idk )


god damn the eyes of christ

I’m feeling

all    


henry james

  in unending cinematic ecstasies of noted but impotent difference


long live the 19thC romanticist’s discoveries of stochastic form, content, & process

long live the 19thC democracy-cum-anarchist romanticist novel frame-tales

long live the 19thC romanticist’s ecological-socio-systemic crossover models

long live the 19thC literary realist’s progressive applications of points of view

long live the 19thC realist variants of our limit membranes, our variable parameter

cults, & the logic of wild & even pragmatic unlimited growth on earth, ltd.


O & the ever-so radical 20thC al smith-cum-FDR new deal negentropy slope?

long live the 19thC in the throes of its 21stC death-by-a-million-schizophrenic-cuts

& with vicarious thrills, my versailles sympathy fountain with water-spitting cherubs

& my milton friedman golden chalice of capital’s inventory

doth trickle down the sloping board of cysts in this stem’s deeper circuits


hear   the faint drips in darkness   

& behold with ears

  the deeper well

through which

    from these reagan’d fleshwounds    it flows


O agamben tricksters before the altar of j. d. bernal’s social devil

turn off your cells, & in the flat-black obsidian john dee screen

see yourself   for yourself for what we are

for the umpteenth diagnostic yield of the steinbeck eyeball harvest

is in

it’s like   a “like” logic

it’s a self-replicating chip implanted in your digital soul      

it’s the proliferating palatial versailles mirror syndrome

& this is the iktomee dream team toxology report


for all any one does do    

is watch

   yourself

watching

   yourself

watching

   yourself

watching

   yourself

watching

   yourself

watching

   yourself

watching

   yourself


every one of you

a panopticon

a “las meninas” slinky™

   a my-opic FYI

to eff my eye   

& why I    eyes ya

O my angioplastic eyeball

       it’s supposed to be

my little pony

my emily dickenson

my edgar huntly

my ambien

my sonata

my lunesta

it’s an all mine

& it’s all my micro & all my macro

O place your dear little godheads on pre-soften’d cure-all cure pillows

& if you sleep on your side, you’ll want to take

big data exhaust expectorant™

to cough-up the slabs of graphs & polls & marketing strategies

for street-corner techno evangelists

proselytizing cryonic rip van winkles

in the sleepy village of best-buy

( just before closing time )

& the remedies on our large-scale corporate farms?


    eyeballs™

  

to behold these spectacles of our visual ecstasy

planted in manured furrows to fertilize distractions

to seed   & spawn the invasive species that we are

in this animated gif re-make: “war of the corporate worlds”

stilt-walking, long-legged emersonian eyeballs

  vs.

the lumbering, sauropod star wars at-at walkers

O catalogy malfunction, all of my “dystopia now” fabrications

have been mfg’d in static “see-what-I-mean?” Q&A manuals

( panic’d? feeling trapped? whatever do we do? )

O fuck, what’s in your wallet?

& what color is your light saber?

& which disney princess are you?

the one that eats kittens?




deep in his star incubator, st. laurence weeps

( the treasury of effects & the dangers of the historical prophets revealed )



the ovipositor of history

aches


with swollen distemper

& crazy utopian energy


see the inventory

for yourself


with your eyes

whirling beach balls of death

purchase the galactic shopping cart handle


with black oven mitts

lift off

the lid of the flammarion dome


behold

the false deathcap


hold fetal stars in the palm of your hand

they purr & purl & burn

as if you could ever imagine infinity

when it’s only that which

has been

& could be


     everywhere   


  but here

Michael Peters, A Short Biographical Statement: Polymathic wunderkind fuck-up? An architect of starry portals to and from malleable stochastic wonderlands? Michael Peters is a poet, visual poet, fictioneer, musician, and the author of Vaast Bin (Calamari) among other assorted language art works. Using sound-imaging tactics in old and new media as the environment necessitates, Michael's work has appeared in print and online journals, and can be found in various anthologies, special collections, and avant-garde libraries, as well as on a variety of recording labels. See more here: http://www.michael-peters.com/.

Michael’s work last appeared in Barzakh in 2015, in Issue #7.

Barzakh Mag