Most recent post

Discovering the terminal horizon

-
Image
  The Terminal Horizon Tourist Bus Discovering the Terminal Horizon The Long Highway Out here, the world ends not in silence, but in fire. The asphalt bleeds into cracked red earth, stretching toward a bruised horizon where the sky refuses to cool. Behind the glass, you drive chasing ghosts through a desert that forgot rain a lifetime ago. Beneath the Scorch Every road leads deeper into the furnace. Even below the surface, the rock fissures and weeps, hot steam rising through subterranean fractures where molten veins pulse in the dark, feeding an ancient, unforgiving heat. Broken Arteries What we built couldn’t hold. Rails twist into the dunes, swallowed by iron sand and wind. Bridges split down the seam, concrete splintered into raw bone, tangled rebar, and dying wires crackling into the smoke. The machines stopped; the wasteland stayed. The Last Horizon And when the road finally runs out, there is only the ash, the petrified stumps, and the quiet. You are a lone figure sitting in...
Post a Comment

The Inception of Capital

-

 


A Colonialist Storm.
Over and Over Again.

Start.
With void.
Then add inception of capital.





A Colonialist Storm. 
Over and Over Again. 

Capitalize on this.
Void.
The backbone is irony.
Of superior culture.


A Colonialist Storm. 
Over and Over Again. 

Decades of. 
Credit has dried up.
Constituted mania.
Reforms, Rescues and Stagnation.
The abyss stares back.


A Colonialist Storm.
Over and Over Again. 

Big money is on the line. 
Credit has dried up.
Countless campaigns and speeches.
Deprived.
Is that true?
The abyss stares back.



A Colonialist Storm.
Over and Over Again. 

Motivation, objectives and requirements. 
A finite game of enlightenment.
Countless campaigns and speeches.
Engaging the unique qualities of the deprived.
Making an economic use of the poor. 
Investing in the development of commodity culture. 
The abyss stares back.



A Colonialist Storm.
Over and Over Again. 

On Entry
We presumed our safety within known boundaries.
We are in agreeance to temporary oppression.
We allow the performance to be believable.
We expect there is an acceptable conclusion.
We know how to act.
We know what to say.

On Exit
The violence experienced is the attraction. 
To enact aggressive-like behaviors.
A theatre of infinite inception.
We stare into the abyss for the abyss to stare back.



A Colonialist Storm.
Over and Over Again. 

An acceptance for surveillance.
Prepared against surprise.
Fixed to an unchanged identity.
Our leaders are dedicated to profit.

To provide distraction.
To deliver misinformation.
To create deception.
To resist mass transformation.

Their achievements are cast in bronze.
Their manifestations are inherited.

The darkened end has been written


Poetry and soundscape





A Colonialist Storm.
Over and Over Again. 

The darkened end a future foretold.
The one who wins to be powerful.
The play was completed from the start.
The outcome was known.
The monuments in place.
The titles in place.
The anglosphere in place.



The Abyss Stares Back Video



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Every stop is a story - Darwin to Adelaide River

-
Image
Every stop is a story - Darwin to Adelaide River The Adelaide River Rupture The storm did not break over the Adelaide River plains; rather, reality tore open along the track. To the left, the familiar Top End landscape clung fiercely to its quiet melancholy. A lone gum tree stood sentinel over the charred scrub and dry earth, its leaves catching the last bruised light of a brooding wet-season sky. In the hollow below, the old fictional homestead crouched beside the rutted dirt road, enduring the heavy stillness that always settles before the atmosphere ruptures. Then came the tear. It began not with thunder, but with an overwhelming, luminous heat that shredded the grey overcast into molten ribbons. You could feel the vortex of raw energy sweeping through radiant ambers, searing cadmium oranges, and blinding celestial whites. The vortex descended like a folded dimension brushing against the earth. Where the atmospheric rift touched the ground, the landscape blurred into fierce gestura...
Read more

The infected touching antiquity

-
Image
  The infected touching antiquity Do you feel divinity when you touch antiquity? Metamodernist art by JJFBbennett Stand before a marble relic, and you find yourself at the threshold of contact. The museum enforces detachment. Do you feel the decay and contamination your hands carry? But what happens when your flesh touches ancient stone? To reach out is an act of somatic friction. Our mortal residue, sebaceous oils and living warmth, ruptures the sterile illusion of the untainted idol. We drag the pristine monument down into the mess of human mortality. Yet, the instinct to touch is an innate longing for connection. Laying bare skin against ancient form collapses millennia, sparking a euphoric link to what came before. Touch restores, renews, and opens an otherworldly portal beyond everyday perception. Touching antiquity infects its distant divinity with our decay, but in that very transgression, it bridges the void—granting the seeker genuine transport into transcendent awe. Marks...
Read more

Discovering the terminal horizon

-
Image
  The Terminal Horizon Tourist Bus Discovering the Terminal Horizon The Long Highway Out here, the world ends not in silence, but in fire. The asphalt bleeds into cracked red earth, stretching toward a bruised horizon where the sky refuses to cool. Behind the glass, you drive chasing ghosts through a desert that forgot rain a lifetime ago. Beneath the Scorch Every road leads deeper into the furnace. Even below the surface, the rock fissures and weeps, hot steam rising through subterranean fractures where molten veins pulse in the dark, feeding an ancient, unforgiving heat. Broken Arteries What we built couldn’t hold. Rails twist into the dunes, swallowed by iron sand and wind. Bridges split down the seam, concrete splintered into raw bone, tangled rebar, and dying wires crackling into the smoke. The machines stopped; the wasteland stayed. The Last Horizon And when the road finally runs out, there is only the ash, the petrified stumps, and the quiet. You are a lone figure sitting in...
Read more