A danceable solution to teenage revolution
Joseph Desire Mobutu changed his name to Mobutu Sese Seke Kuku NgBendu waza Banga, which has been alternately translated as “the all-powerful warrior, because of his endurance and inflexible will to win, will go from conquest to conquest , leaving fire in his wake.” or “ the rooster who watches over all the hens”
Terrorism is part of our History –Angela Davis
A giant flowed by in the river of filth. Graham had a video of porn transmitting on his suit. A cock entering the same mouth over and over again. Amphetamine sweat dripping of skin. Poetry was being downloaded on his phone. He felt the clock ticking. This seemed the dying down of the universe. Violin transmissions deep from within. A group of men ran by in army fatigues black plastic machineguns swinging on their arms semen crusted on their pants. He kicked tampons of his feet. A car had crashed and caught fire he found it strangely beautiful, an almost pastoral love scene, nature and technology.
A half-track pulled in front of him. A dwarf in fatigues and one arm jumped out of the cab and grabbed him by the crotch and pulled him into the dark of the interior. A woman with fatigues and an ugly gun was seated inside. A man was sputtering in the corner a plastic bag wrapped over his face. Sit down and turn that porn off.
A stretch of sand covered in burning palm trees. Faces of the leaders were projected on the faces of the hotels. Dropping the body where it soon became covered in a fine dusting of sand. A group of young people in beautiful swimming suits were running in and out of the water, stopping to take photographs with each other, drinking wine, eating cheese, fruit , and bread. Their laughter carried up towards them over the waves. Graham dreamed of walking out in the water. He was hosing urine out of the half-track under observation from the woman and the dwarf who it turned out was also a woman. Jets streaked over the city their trails catching the sunlight in pink streaks. Graham was amazed at the beauty of their movement. They delivered bombs far away and glinting with sunlight disappeared, their trails still reflecting the sun. He dreamed of the pilots. What dreams are contained behind those goggles and masks?
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The phone rang Malin set his pen down to answer it.
They are coming to arrest you now.
He didn’t know the voice
Should I run?
You can. They will probably kill your wife if you leave though.
The phone clicked off.
Malin let his handset drop to the desktop. He looked over his history of the revolution. In its second draft. 70% of it was finished. He hadn’t attempting poetry in years so he could complete it. He was sure it was his legacy. He began to scrawl a poem in the margins of the draft.
The knock came twenty minutes after his draft was finished.
Through the keyhole he saw the swaying man and women. Their uniforms tight their baldrics and holster black and shining with polish. He certain they were drunk. He certain they were still teenagers. Their backs were to the door. He could not see their faces.
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Women of the world take over, because if you don’t, the world will come to an end. It won’t take long
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Federico Fellini’s working title for La Dolce Vita was “Though life is brutal and terrible you can always find some moments of sensuality and sweetness”
Swung, his face at last to the wind, then his neck snapped.
Can Xue the Chinese writer, has largely been untroubled by censors. Her tales of bizarre ailments, entrapment, and sexual menace are set in alternate reality of grotesques and surrealism. The censors have found her work too difficult to find political fault with. Her name translates as stubborn dirty snow. She has found inspiration and her work has been compared to western authors such as Bruno Shulz, Shakespeare, Goethe, Calvino, Dante, and Borges. She has also completed studies on these authors. Tragedy befell her family during the Cultural Revolution and she was mostly self-educated. She describes her work as “life literature” or soul literature”
Finally we hear from the woman at the center of the controversy
A man who I lived with years ago is my friend on Facebook. We shared an apartment in a grim church filled city. A city I spent a year in. I received nothing from that period of my life except a couple of books and records I still treasure occasionally. Every photo he posts of his wife is blurred. It is like she is totally out of focus. I have never met this wife and probably never will, since me and this man are on very separate paths in life and will probably never interact. Does he not realize how inadequate each photo he presents the world, is there some effect around the wife that blurs or smudges each photo. This man posts links to articles by Pastor John Hagee on the blood moon with the words “interesting reading”. Hagee is the head of a megachurch that is especially attached to political support for the country of Israel. The reason for this is the necessity of the holy land being in Jewish hands for the final war of Armageddon. He sees four blood moons as one of many signs and wonders predicting these final events. I think of hiding this man from my Facebook feed blocking his occasional reports of his, in my opinion, lunatic beliefs. Then I think of this shutting off, this turning off a person. Sometimes I’m convinced the algorithms of Facebook are hiding more and more of what I post, we get more and more isolated in this electronic labyrinths until we are shouting alone in our room, customizing more and more everything we input. Filter everything so that blurred faces are all we experience.
I never thought of myself as depressed as much as paralyzed by hope.
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The soldier is more a girl than a woman. Her outfit is green and her young face is framed by her dark hair. Her large nose flares and her breathing is a white puff in the morning chill. Her rifle is held tight at attention.
What will you do?
Where will you fight?
In their land.
Will we need maps of our own land?
We need maps only of the enemy’s lands.
What roads will we travel on?
I will march on road of their skulls.
When will you stop?
When there is no more fight in them and we salt their earth
What happens if you are captured?
I will bite my own tongue off and drown in my own blood before I say a word to them.
When you’ve begun to think like a gun
The rest of the year is already done
When you’ve begun to think like a gun
The days of the year are suddenly gone.
Baron was sure the sample case was light as he drove into Mumsburg. He didn’t care, what he could sell he could sell; the trip hadn’t been bad yet. Roadside food was not sitting well in his stomach.
A pile of money was sitting in the middle of the road. Bills fluttered around like the leaves of autumn. Baron pulled the car to halt to prevent colliding with the offering.
A woman ran out of the house he stopped by. She held a baby in her arms. The baby’s face was red from screaming.
This object won’t stop. It makes the funny noise all morning. I forget the words for these things.
The woman clothing seem thrown on at random, her arm entirely out of the sleeve of her shirt. Baron held the baby. The woman wandered away from them.
Where is my door? She said as she climbed on top of Baron’s car and then sprawled back
Car was driving toward him. A man opened the door of the moving vehicle and then tumbled onto the street; the car veered off the road and smashed into a tree. The man crawled away.
Baron wondered what do with the screaming baby. The mother looked thoroughly passed out. He thought there was some blood coming out of her nostril.
What’s person? Do we believe this? He heard from behind him.
A man in a suit covered in mud and leaves was walking towards him with a cellphone in his hand.
What’s person? Do we believe this?
The man said waving the phone.
Hey can you watch this baby? Do you know that lady?
The man looked puzzled and then started to slowly chew the cell phone. Drool drizzled out, a button beeped.
The baby stopped screaming. It was asleep.
People in the local community have said that the continued presence of armed militia members is hurting business.
Several homes in Portsmouth were set on fire last night. We have footage of the arsonist setting fire to our porch.
We are all born mad. - Samuel Beckett