I am an orifice trying to swallow itself whole.

A velocity, straight and uninterrupted, curves from the locality of an acceleration that remains, in turn, linear to itself 🫦.

Shapes in a window reflection, an expression flickering across another’s face, intrusive re-constructions of earlier moments.

Give me more than everything. Trace the curve of a body; a continuity that seeks its own ineffability as a discrete object of analysis, displacing failure to ever-higher orders. 

birf

Inside the gap, a screen receives my projections: phantasmic fruits dangling just beyond my fingertips and a kaleidoscopia of phobic monsters salivating at my throat.

I try to escape but am crushed by the gravity of my own worldline. A heaviness pins me against deep ends where catalogued humiliations and missed opportunities counter-balance my cries for a better tomorrow. Nailed to a ticking clock; “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? (ꈍ ω ꈍ)”. And this paralysis just makes me crazier… dreaming bigger, wider, more impossible.

My failure to close the gap feels pre-packaged. Birthmark. As if without this tension, without the lag between myself and my own otherness, the subjective field collapses.

Nonetheless, within this limited locality, only degrees of certainty are certain. My hopes and fears are all I possess.

Keep looping. Trying. To fill up every hole. Cut off every defect. To reach a singularity that would paradoxically negate the screen, the gravity, the projections, annihilating the only room where I am granted access to my own becoming. 

DamnedifIdodamnedifIdon’t

e-Hugs

My stubborn demand that the lag should be fixable: It tightens around my neck. Obsessing, fussing, spiraling.

Perverse daydreams about a righteous emancipation from acidic parental objects burning my windpipe. ‘My childhood should be banned in all countries.’

I blink and wake up ten years flabbier, haunted by the present absence of an idyllic innocence now out of reach: heat radiates from my fallacious rememberings of the unmediated love once injected through an umbilical cord.

Stick me inside your surrogate womb. Cake me with one layer of post-digital makeup after another. Let me farm your adoration through the worship of our algorithmic membrane.

Pulses of sincerity in vertical H. 264 can rip open and fist every definitional scope. I don’t just want stretchmarks. Astroturf me like you mean it. Make our distances collapse under their own weight.

You will learn how AR spongebob can enhance your stupid life in ways we never thought possible. God loves late-stager abjects and humiliation porn, because today I am tasked to contort my selfishness into something easily digestable just for you, the gigantic disembodied eye hovering in the sky. Apparatuses augment the resolution of my pores only to uncover ever more delicate artifacts and imperfections… and my hideousness infinitely expands into a holographic field of uncanny repetitions.

I want you to love me… but a _____ gets in the way. An npc keeps bouncing off the edge of the map and doesn’t know it.

Crying is a notification that you’re still alive, sport.

A thought bubble appears above my head: what is lost to both my future and my past is never possessed in the first place. ☹.

Spit out by the algorithm, I crawl back into the crowd on my hands and knees, begging nepo demagogues with discord podcasts to inject me with gestures towards a beyond – a realm of perfect justice, total freedom, romantic pluralism, puritanical traditionalism.

Frequency of God 963 Hz on auto-play. I see the world better with my eyes closed. A blissful ignorance soon interrupted. For in time, my hallucinatory Eden slips. Two pupils in my mirror violate me with a variable that refuses to fit the socio-technological equation. “Who am I?”

A nervous network dreams to compartmentalize its yearning for a something more, something that neither synthetic gloss nor analytics can equalize.

Starfish

Eye-rolling your eye-roll is just another eye-roll. An infinite regress of eye-rolls receding like the horizon. I want to kick and scream. I want to scorn my failure to arrive at finality by spiting the absurdity of existence. If I cannot close the gap by force, then…

I am a starfish. A period of apathy where I relinquish all striving. I am finally “letting go,” free-floating in a mist of subliminal beliefs about un-thinking: a mind scheming an escape out of itself.

Superglue this disembodied ‘I’ back onto the ‘self.’ I can almost breathe the prelapsarian air of revelation dancing in the vacuous margins of my subjective field. Could this blissful state be erupting from a primordial essence, or is this no more than juvenile enjoyment in the taboos of inner-transgression?

Soon enough, the euphoric haze of begins to lift as my self-narrative complexifies through its own momentum. I come to find that my transcendental gibberish makes me feel something precisely because it scribbles inside the lines, safe from any actual danger. Never straying far from the environs of identity, I play pretend like a child who confidently wanders near the edge of an unknown all while knowing that mother’s watchful eye is hovering, that her voice will eventually call out their name.

And I hear my name. My fruits, my womb, my completeness… all of it woven from the very knot that enlightenment promises to untangle.

The ambient body remains intact. My horizon continues to recede.