Bytes in my intestines

Domm-latest

Doom.

 

I have already killed so many demons and I have seen so much blood that my head spins, when I return for the umpteenth time to enter the underground warehouse … Then, it is as if the virtual spaces had been introduced in some parallel way to my body, as atomic fractions, viruses, nanobots that will infect my digestive tract. An immense desire to vomit, as if I suddenly stopped after a hundred roller coasters. My mind revolves around virtual coordinates and wars on the computer screen, and then I turn a thousand times in the bed harassed by the viruses, which have invaded my flesh and merge into it, mutating it, a new state of evolution in which the lizard skin mutates into something else, into a fractal, mental, crystalline, final container of toxins, of memes. Pale and rattled, like the effluvia of an underwater volcano that keeps alive, primitive and grotesque forms.

Take some of the global super-highways of byte streams, while our bodies continue their daily routine of movements, and we reprogram ourselves into a new automatic elegy.

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Void

Enter+the+Void-2

Enter the Void.

 

Everything hurts. The silence, the furniture that squeaks on the top floor, hurt. I drown in a watery light. I feel nothing more than that sting. Something tells me not to write. Do not give shape to what should only disappear. Flow to a stream, melt. Salt. I am absolutely aware that any act will be followed by nothing. There will be no thread, just random stumblings on an infinite carpet, full of folds.

A few hours later, despite the darkness, there seems to be nowhere to run. There is no place free of human beings, nor of their canine slaves, nor outside the reach of their electromagnetic emissions. There is a void out there, but it is unreachable.

This vacuum, is almost comparable to that which exists inside a bag of meat.

Nothing shines

campesina-Konstantin Vasilyev

The Reaper. Konstantin Vasilyev, 1966.

 

The abandoned moon,
A lighthouse of little interest
Suspended from a network of fibers
Dark and convoluted.

A star beyond
It lights a place so folded
In its own depth,
Whose blue does not yet wake up.

Gray clouds stained red
Threaten to cut
The helpless print
Of, without grace, intergalactic travelers.

Corpuscles, light waves
Crash into the ivory surface
Of an enchanted marsh
Muddy, funereal.

But nothing shines
In the way the flowered crack
Of the basin of her eyes,
Embrace the cold of darkness.

Eahnah’s Window

eahnah window twin towers

Eahnah’s Window. Boris vallejo, 1997.

 

Boris Vallejo, airbrush magician, re-creator of out-of-time universes, voluptuous sorceresses, strange reptilian creatures, brave warriors; is the author of the image that begins this note, Eahnah’s Window.

The legend that accompanies the illustration is disconcerting:

Eahnah (called witch by some, master scientist by others) has perfected a device that she calls a “window.” It permits her to stay safe in A Fwa Nes while viewing a limited portion of Earth. The “window” is near the weak place in the space-time fabric, the opening through which Mlenfee entered Earth’s universe and ventured into Manhattan. Eahnah has been called to help rid the city of the Wargi, and she is just now destroying, by mental means, a major tower whose present occupants, all Wargi monsters, will soon be dead. Unfortunately, and ironically, all the heat released will cause a new Ice Age-within a few years, not millennia.

Dated in 1997, the image similarity with the 9/11 incident is indubitable.

Liberty, Equality, Fraternity

giger babys

H. R. Giger.

 

Through the times and every place where the human being has set foot, there is a same picture that repeats itself: men and women who follow blindly to others, like cattle to dogs. Sometimes it is necessary to give them a few lashes, sometimes it is enough sweeten their ears with lies. They give even their life for their pastor; so it seems that they have been born to serve their masters.

No two men are identical; There is only equality between slaves, but they do not deserve to be called men. They despise virtue and their precarious understanding adores everything small, low and simple. This uniform mass is for us as insects, and we call them with contempt: Drones, Soldiers and Workers.

Some dare to call this a New World. Now watch them carefully, because they are going to parade before you: they are, your brother the weak. Your brother the idiot. Your brother the zombie. Your brother the impotent. Your brother the coward. Your brother the mute. Your brother the blind. Your brother the deaf. Your brother the sick. Your brother the corpse. Your brother the forgotten. Your brother the killer. Your brother the thief. Your brother the rapist. Your brother the executioner. Your brother the sadist. Your brother the judge. Your brother the teacher. Your brother the lawyer. Your brother the crippled. Your brother the retard. Your brother the black. Your brother the Indian. Your brother the Asian. Your brother the white. Your brother the banker.

Observe and understand the magnificence of our world.

Fake Reality

SW - ISIS-2

#SW #ISIS.

 

Nobody wants to believe that there is no reason. Everything has to be explained. Nobody understands that someone can kill just for killing. What is fiction and what is reality?

Time stretches like an elastic, making every second unabashed like a grown river. The path of the hours is unreachable. The sky is gray, the same from prisons, buildings or forests. Nothing is sheltered in anything. It seems as if the light travels through the rooms like a dog head down and furious. Neither does the shadows reject that light. It is an omnipotent fluid, inflated with disdain.

Hobo With a Shotgun (2011)

hobo_with_a_shotgun_poster large

Hobo With a Shotgun (2011).

Hobo With a Shotgun (2011), gore / retro / post / apocalyptic fantasy film, is another of those endearing films in which after generous doses of violence of the most extreme nature, we learn in the most didactic and realistic way possible, the importance of values indispensable to coexist in society, such as justice, sacrifice, friendship, and perhaps love; without which the social pyramid would become a desolate desert of ignorance, depravity and abuses of the strong over the weak.

The story itself, unfolds in the manner of a Nordic saga, set no longer in the woods and the sea, but in the dirty and miserable streets inhabited by homeless people without dignity, drug addicts armed with knives, and girls and hungry children without dreams nor hopes, who sell their body or their pain for a coin, where the only thing that seems abundant is gushing blood for pure pleasure and drugs. A landscape of pathos, which the vagabond, personified by Rutger Hauer (What led this actor to that infernal city? Was he always a hobo or fell under these conditions due to some unforeseen misfortune, the fall of Wall Street, the Second American Civil War, bad friends, drink, gambling, stealing, betrayal, deception, or even a personal rebellion against the consumer society?), decides to take it in their hands and clean it, entering into action as a Patriarch of the early times, whose only law is the rumble of his shotgun, thus giving up his own absurd hopes (to end his days as a gentle gardener in the suburbs). Thus giving also a sense, finally, to his life of failure and humiliation, through sacrifice and through contempt and deep hatred for the subhumans that suddenly surround him. Like Dante, he too will descend to the real hell wells, in the company of his own Beatrice, whom he discovers in the wilted eyes of a girl tired of existence, in an epic journey towards a bloodthirsty and almost supernatural climax.

When everything ends, when the cliché is left behind, it is only up to the viewer to ask if we are to believe in evil, in the same way as in good. And the good may then be, always according to this film, a shotgun ready to pierce a human waste, in the hands of someone who has nothing left to lose: the skin of an old dispossessed, very angry and furious with the world.

5/5 Stars

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