The Blame for Being Alive - Cryptodira

«Come closer, sit next to me.

But don’t you dare touch me

Your silhouette will light up my eyes.

Dance for me;

imitate divinity;

Parody eternity so I can believe that this moment won’t die

«Let me displace my form into the one you will take

Let it be so everything finally makes sense again

…I say «again» but cannot recall when I had harmony last

«Masquerade for me and fill-out what is fake inside of me

I will make you my world, and it will b such a beautiful world

A world where all of cration stops short before my Word

«No more negation or opposition, other than in performance

No true otherness;

nothing lost or unknown;

no more secrets

Everything illuminated by the all-burning fires of my passion

«It all should burn anyway.

Everything’s decomposing bodies

Everything burns;

fire is the greatest defense against incontinence.»

The blame of the body will fall on the same ones

We fetishize, sex and stigmatize in order to enjoy

It will fall on the objects we love (f)or hate

They will be the scapegoat.

Bodies without the organ

The one we lose at birth, and forever made into an object

In the shadow of that organ, life is but the trace of loss and lack

«Now that it is gone, and I am abandoned to organic rhythms

Everything left to me after the fall is capable of breaking and dying

Everything’s fleeting and partial objects, dishonest repetitions

Everything fakes and only glimpses truth as masquerade.»

Held against the Idea of eternity—life that is not immortal—

Life in the shadow of the phallus is always-already dead

«Sit next to me, faux-divine distraction from mortality

I’ll make you into Truth, but a truth for my own signifying economy

A truth which is blinding, burning white, and yet shrouded from you

A truth which is bitter and painful, to justify my own pain.»

The speaking subject is ripped in (-)t (w)o discourse (s)

Temporalized and thus given an end.

Where there ought to be

The necessary punctuation for teleology to blossom

For the patriarch, this is only an obsession with death

The thought of death is repressed, only to return in erotic visions

He exhausts his life in his cursing of life, he curses fate

While jealously imitating the one he supposes to cause fate

In the pit of guilt, he returns to subjugated substitutes

«How wonderful that I can displace this guilt outside myself?»

He speaks, and seals into femininity the blame for life itself

Even the attempt to glorify femininity for bearing this blame

Smacks of sophistic prattle and violent perversion

Know-it-all-men obsessed with a primordial and

Pre-verbal womb;

the photo-negative of frustration and pain

They simply put their own unconscious out for rent

So they can find it once more, conveniently when evicting others

These know-it-all men speaking of an abstract Mother of all

Thus rendering their own particular mother as lazy existenz

What they truly obsess over is the same (differ/defer)ing specter of guilt

The primal father resurfaces as the cause of our fear of mortality

Since we can’t reclaim or re-appropriate the object which we’ve lost

Since that object was never there to begin with

Let us exceed the narrow vision of these shameful sons

Who only know how to jealously possess what they want to be

Let us know no metaphysics in the assignment and reassignment

Of the bodies which only truly know the binary of pain/pleasure

Bless us with the contentment of knowing both being and having

Life, when subject to temporality, self-destructs under the weight of eternal

Ideas:

The Idea of unchallenged freedom only gives rise to jealous aggression

But speech is not enough;

we will continue to hear a death-cry

Masquerading as a pathological will to life and power

Standing at the burial site of the primal father

The cries of the sons synthesize like the gnashing teeth of the damned:

«Everything must be a mirror of our virility

We will suppress even our own enjoyment and fulfillment

If it is not a projection of the vulgar image of masculinity

We will take a pact of surveillance so we are each our own

Tormentors and prison guards, as well as the others

Everything will be burned by the passion of the most powerful

Everything’s fucking the same, but it’s better this way

Everything ought to sit still and obey, like corpse-puppets

(It's) Everything’s not (-)all that we want.»