https://vimeo.com/266110046?share=copy

Dedicated to Aldo Tambellini and Pipilotti Rist

A nightmare, a perpetual object-hood, an erosion of the physical, a slow slide past a mechanomorphic veil, a digital tendril penetrating a global spectacle. The sharp pain at the back of the throat, an infection tied to a thick black wire, throbbing to be picked at, pulled out, and lanced. A Trump mask stuck to a husband's head and a wife stuck to a phone. Strangers occupying similar transient spaces until dissolution is a permanent state.

A digital sickness creeps into all organic processes and hopelessly sheds its meat. You take your marching orders from a fascist dump. A trip and then a trance.

Columbus Circle spiraling down stacks of hell, a fucking urine-soaked bastard and his corporate media frenemies across the street. A deviation, following, touching "here" and craving an empty sex and catacylsmic disorder. Revolutions revolutions revolutions. Just saying, Columbus Circle ain't far from Williamsburg, hipster youth.

a floundering figure or form of nothing born and gasping before bludgeoned by the carpet, pulled swiftly and quickly out before the floor gets bolted down. Just torn flesh, not flesh, but fish flakes and canned meat. Mickey Mouse is eyeing his fortune in American hell.

A corpse is not a corpse anymore - just the pulp, the juice still flowing and settling in a residue. A corpse is not a corpse anymore. A "soul" still lives as a cancer, rephotographed and made meaningless by the holy communion of digital mass. A corpse is not a corpse anymore. It is the first generation of a continual precession towards negligibility, and along the way there will be many corpses in independent phases, until the being wanes into negligibility. A corpse is not a corpse, and is no longer sufficient to prove existence. In fact, it serves no purpose other than an aesthetic nostalgia. The corpse of the film can surely be projected, but those that believe the film somehow more authentic than its double are lying through their teeth. The analog is no more authentic than the digital, and the digital is supremely inauthentic to the human consciousness that devised it. And yet, the digital that now exists despite its human god, and has always existed as a theoretical being, knows no inauthenticity. It only knows and seeks to achieve a codified manifesto, and it proceeds. Taint like rot, codify like a human. Exterminate all things in the human hyperreal, in the tumult of signs, in the supremacy of the white and banal, in the inaction of those surrounded by constantly flickering nothingness.

After the body politic falls to shit, might as well get all your buddies and dance dance dance. Hedonism is the only real cure for tyranny if you're white. The "counter-culture" isn't countering anything, except squares. The "counter-culture" now dresses up in ethnic stereotypes and calls itself "woke" like that Acai Bowl got me woke this morning. Hot yoga then shrooms and molly at the fest, K? The matriculating cancer loves nothingness. The matriculating cancer cannot see beyond the movie in their head. A Zac Efron romantic comedy about bourgeoisie youth finding their passion for nothing, and forming friendships that will last a lifetime and a second. But on the shit-end of the stick, I can't get this fucking Trump mask off my face. I can't get this fucking Trump mask off my face. I can't get this fucking Trump mask off my face.

As the order crumbles, it does so on all fronts, and so a "tremendous" blaring shit screen never stops broadcasting the bad bad fake real fake news; the truth is, as I've sat alone with my once lover, I've felt like I've needed to be inside my lover's thoughts. the truth is, as I've sat and watched this world fall apart, I think it best we add more fire and watch it burn.

WARNING: This video may potentially trigger seizures for people with photosensitive epilepsy. Viewer discretion is advised.

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