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Sliced into cross sections
the meat of daily existence can
be tasted with greater intensity
- specific moments, once fleeting,
can be isolated and examined in greater detail.
It is only through such clarity
that the pattern of flavours,
meaningfully encoded and rich
in information, can truly be discerned.
Once the pattern is sampled it can be reproduced
and transmitted across greater distances that is possible
with traditional methods.
This decoupling of experiences from individual sensorium
and neural complexes
when combined with the multiplicity of consciousness
represents the most radical recapitulation of ontological reality
Freed from a reliance on meat constructs
these fragments of experiential time
are free to interact with each other and evolve
according to any emergent criteria which may manifest within
the morphology of this continuity.
Hide from the cursed day!
Let all of creation eat its own face in shame!
This stubborn stain blights us, one and all
- oh humanity! Will you ever find a hairstyle that doesn’t make you look like you’re one stamp away from a free chai latte?
And if Men’s Health declared that
the consumption of one’s own bath water was the key
to tighter glutes would you rush to embrace that Rosé-tinted dawning
of eponymous brain death?
Lest we forget, the signs hang from every rough-hewn surface. They beseech in such definitives
; irrefutable, immovable, as if language herself would deem to pass such proclamations!
Nay! Before the end credits roll
and this unconscious plague becomes finally known
you would surely question this instience that any resemblance to those
living or dead
is purely coincidental?
What is still fed into this twilight of cognition on which is written
no longer hopes and dreams but residual images of pure distraction unlinked from even the most remedial of comprehensions may still provide salvation.
If only. I know too well your Meyer-briggs indicators
barely sensing twisted flesh and bone and metal wreck of a passing shadow.
Oh, you’ll be there when the streets run red with our own waste chemicals
and i’m sure you’ll mutter and tut as they seep into the water table
and share your disgust across those ‘spheres you hold so dear
if only because they remind you of what you once thought was the best of yourself
but bore really as much resemblance to your ‘self as those vegan converse allstars
covering your crooked feet.
Cast your eyes for once away from that shallow depth of field periphery inside which your every gesture is forever limited and perhaps for once you’ll understand and not just see but frankly I ain’t holding my breath, baby.
So, Bram E. Gieben is this rather talented writer and performance poet I know who does a whole bunch of cool shit all over Glasgow including running this awesome spoken word night that spans both here and the capitol.
Below is a very well produced video performance of a poem I’ve seen him do a whole bunch of times. It’s pretty fucking good. Seriously, not only is it a sound and provocative piece of writing but the effort and cinematography that has gone into this video raises it above the noise of every day self-promotion. Stick it in your nervous system and let it fester.
His attempts to have his nervous system declared a sovereign nation in order to procure diplomatic immunity for his noostropic proclivities had thus far met with stern rejection from the bodies which govern such matters. This left the black market – a libertarian criminal diaspora of free thinkers, biohackers and professional lunatics. Dealing with this loose cabal of raconteurs did not come without affect; a Kafkaesque lewis carol funhouse of synchronicity and high weirdness.
Navigating the tides of such an entity required a finely tuned compass and an attention to detail that mart1n found tedious.
At the weekend I belong to this tenement;
its creaks and drafts carry secrets only for me.
Whilst he works he listens to a radio tuned halfway between this side and that side and hums off Beatles songs under his breath – achieving a trance like state essential for his work..
the neon rain falls in
melodies upon the thirsty soil;
the night-refrain becoming
to which even the Gods must dance.