Tuesday, 23 June 2015

To Resist the (Gender) Binary (trans* manifesto).

Protest is when I say this does not please me.

Resistance is when I ensure what does not please me occurs no more.

To resist is first of all, 1 to never be understood as its own objective meaning 2 resistance reclaimed as a verb 3 an adjective also, to describe the act of a deliberate stopping and when describing the binary 3.1 we must consider a system of deliberate and continued 3.11 sexual exploitation, the grammar of the body, those that would enforce it 3.2 the policing of the self 3.3, 3.4, 3.5 .6 the self 3.7 and that in developing a theory of resistance the primary basis of that theory is its opposite meaning I am / you are / they are in a state of 4 mental illness 5 or ideally bodily wrongness 5 pathologists 6 of the sucker 7 of the cunt of the cock 8 of the face and hair 9 of the pupil 10 those same hacks that condemned the habits of collection,, despots of the artery 11 and in that resistance a mesh 12 that I contain no pride means resistance of the language of proudness 13 destroyed as cutting 14 where and when we consider Gender as labour 15 with wages 15.19 but born in the wrong body 15.19.1, but mentally ill 16 cherished of the bitch plea 17 to understand the binary as one would gravity, naturation as a verb, a gravity be done a 18 done thing 19, units of control as helicopters 20 as a comprehensive illness 21 as a natural limit for voting 22 as a body. Understanding resistance as the possible outcome from which natural truth screams back on its back as its back is a snake a 23 uncorsetted body. Rotting flesh. Gas. A substance emerged from the natural order,, heated, atonement, don't ever sleep.

The binary enforced in all character of language likes, it likes the body (and is like) dead animal, dual carriageway, 4.45pm stiffened && bloated on the curb, mouth smashed, a badger, jaw locked as an A biting the curb. Don't ever sleep.

Tuesday, 16 June 2015

Purge - Creatives and Intellectuals

To satisfy the anal urge of the artists, of monolithic anti resistance
set out by liberals undeterred by the thought of actually having killed/// shredded on an MAXX copy scanner, blown into bits of cum, orgasmed to shreds
reeling in the once maniacle now no longer anything torment of a so called
proposition, almost definitely for funding not for profit but to merely pay those
that contributed to the conference or project with their labour, both hands, both feet, brain plugged, total fucking shitheads, to at least cover expenses and a lunch,, or to afford the gulag whitewash sprained into the walls of a gallery
space later discussed at length to which I am disgusted at length
the general decision to provoke said shitheads
by death and torture blown away,
retracted in the loading bay.
our troops marched out to drain the town;
the necks of those who'd have us drown. We, demanding a list of names,
sigils, characters, we, that assassinated  / as common practice,, retract that remove that  strike that from the minutes my darling, bela,
frozen. Frozen into the lamprey tooth jaw called 'destructive art' and what it means,, saying to the aspiration that aspiration can only be, can only be terminal
therefore: Frozen, Boris Johnson probably comissioning works by
Anish Kapoor, within our right minds,, and please take seriously the fact
that our minds are never silent, dipping into wild peaks and crumbling in misery
I think of you just then, a few days before, wondering home by yourself at five in the morning screaming and purging and muttering and rending,, and live
in utter sympathy, and very generously perform this revenge onto your enemies,
those that continually smash at the door, anyone that would report to the fucking cops, that army of blistering cowards, child abusers, the actual police
and anyone that would aspire towards a managerial position moving themselves
up into the outer rims of heaven, spitting back at themselves, actual
fierce spitting. I promise these individuals will be removed from your souls
in wicked vengeance starting from now. Nothing started. Nothing in fact moved. The street was very quiet. It was four in the morning. The travelers were choring, and the gavvers they can't catch the travelers. Halfway down it, the street, is a young man engaged in promoting some kind of creative practice. He is approached, and during questioning, three hundred stories below the basement, he confesses to having his own interests at heart, and that what is at stake in his own interest is not his to have, but everyone's. He admits to having once in fact claimed to promote 'the arts' through a wave of publications aimed
only at the managerial systemhood that had promised,, (its phalanx of perversions) to rid him of his spouse Thea who had been an active member
of Operation Mindfuck, engaged in the ransacking of Anonymous and Anish
Kapoor, Smith, I360 and the generally genital infection called Hunt
the culture secretary, who all amalgomate into a subset for police violence
pacified into a vision of resistance called creative practice. We shot him.
Garnishing the pure essence of February. In the months leading up to the purge
I'd been planning on getting married. Not out of a strong desire to do so, I
was already maxed out on devices, but out of a strange political compulsion
that had arisen at the instantiation of the first Green government in the United Kingdom. My marriage was to be a local affair, with an emphasis on the modern
community. It was to be a forced marriage. This,, as a subset of laws introduced
for people of 'gender difference', or, as Lord Ashcroft put it (as we smashed
his fucking teeth into his begging eyelids) "fucking freakscenes", set
to charm the public into thinking liberally and creatively about our approach
to conversations over coffee on Lambs Conduit street about the situation
in the Ukraine: "In short, it was clear from the outset that this is not a question of protest, but of a bloody coup attempt egged on by the West, with a view to destabilizing and undermining Ukraine's close neighbor, Russia. As of Thursday 20 February, with an attempted truce lying in tatters and gunfire heard across Kiev, the estimated death toll had climbed to 35, with the conflict showing no sign of abating" "show don't tell". Stepping with vigorous energy onto the noses
closing the air off of Colin and Chris Wier, those hideous fretting globules
of hatred. We must never be tempted to think of as people but as murders.
Not perpetrators but the act itself. Show don't tell. Mocking the heroic,
stifling the prince. And in my defense, presented to the replacing purge comittee
after the purge originally, I concluded that these people had in fact
framed me in a spitroast. That was before the boiling scene (and with no pain)
in The Tudors. God life barrels on my darling. At the beginning of trooping the colour, reminding ourself of the capacity of our own minds to see
in various depths and colours, differing each to each, teasing the reliability of our aims, teasing the reliability of focus. Making everything go wrong.
Everything I can before I die, while I die and after I die, while I die feels most effective whilst before is more sexy, plunging me into gendered erotic
fantasies  involving my own infancy, the electric field, the glass pinch
mistaken for salt, poured out over the water, or after I am dead as a ghost
haunting and purging the hive mind of managerial and police violence, the same
over and over again forever as I am dead dying or pre-dead not dying
or as I live and wreck and patrol and break and scream and break and patrol
and die or as the head is lost or switched back on to swing round in a crazed ark
or as the work I do now right now all the time that is care that is supposedly
not for profit that is supposedly towards and new substance, a phantom one
before I die or whilst I die or drift with it make good the escape and kill it
or while I do which I actually do engage in the tankie fantasy which is
the killing of an enemy body moved over by not dying. Political managerial
policing crisis resolved into the purge of intellectuals and creatives
for no other reason than not dying not dead not living not life
but lying over and under and on the not yet brilliant floor covered in blood.


P.S. Here's the execution of city financier and billionaire Lord Farmer:

And here are some of the wedding photos: