Fork It
Hey,
ƑORK IT
After the sham of democracy.
We can talk openly.
As of now?
Close your mouth.
Keep fingers’ fumblings few.
They’ve got eyes on you.
At least two.
Black and blue.
Beat bruised.
You succumb to what you accept.
You accept what you’re forced to.
Force comes from above.
Put in.
And upon.
And below.
Like most things.
At the behest of baton blows.
And from all sides.
Closing in.
Cutting out.
The signal stalled.
Verdicts overturned.
I call afaul.
The air of “democracy.”
The cheap rhyme’s hypocrisy.
This fake shit chafes me.
At what point do you stop making excuses for the piss in your face?
How many forgived-again rapists will you permit in your stay?
Whose finger and how deep?
Fist to fin?
Like some song that stinks?
(Yeah, it’s that stupid.)
And all that pretending at “work?”
As if your “contributions” didn’t make everything worse.
As if the bomb factory wasn’t going to blow up in your own face.
ACME caught you lacking and it’s closed case.
Ordered to stay-in-place.
Whose order?
Everything pay-to-play.
Whose airwaves?
Whose tight urethra?
Toward a sort of Flattened Everything Athleisure.
Well—
The indoor life doesn’t cut it for outdoor creatures.
Wolves exist.
And men too.
And words attest to the wickedness that women will do.
And have.
Words in flux confuse us.
Obvious conclusions elude us.
We’re not pointing at the same targets.
So we’re missing the point.
“Which is?”
Nothing.
There’s talk of towers about this.
A foundational sort of myth.
Lost.
SEE—
Now it’s a metamyth.
And soon enough this’ll all exist in a world where it lands as low-wrote glyphs.
They’ll point their fingers and they’ll hoot and howl.
Say “That ‘h’ looks like a guy pissing” in a low gruntgrowl.
In what remains of language.
“Ugug” and “agog” per-haps.
A pessimist’s tic.
Alas.
But as it happens your ass is gathered in bunches and fucked monthly and the resiphoned spunk is then bundled by the hundreds of cc’s mixed with the Sysco feces soiled smeared stained and streaked across Name-Branded Underwear some Other Man’s Name gathered in a band around whatever belly fat you’ve accumulated whatever low back blob from the imposition of chairs and screens Full Submission in some Other Man’s Name so like —
I GOT INTO IT
mildly
the other night
half or perhaps likelier three-quarters drunk with a guy who does high-level cybersecurity i.e. I figured he’d probably be a vaguely psycho libertarian (But As It Turns Out,) we got to Talking Thoughts About Things and my lack of belief in “democracy” (full sneer quotes (as if you didn’t know)) horrifies the polite and polity.
Comes on like a real shocker.
And I’m like:
“Have you no imagination?”
Can you think of nothing better for these people?
For yourself?
In my lowest expectations, better worlds are possible.
This is a world of insult and animal abuse.
Surely—
The organization as-is’s gotta go.
Full shovel upheaval.
Collectively buried alive.
Still breathing shallow.
Overgrown shadows.
What’s built up must flow across the meadow.
What’s accumulated ungainly.
And the gains uneven.
So we should fork it.
Fuck it.
Separate realities.
I don’t give a fuck anymore.
If we’re playing on the same servers we’re always going to have griefers and trolls bro.
Abandon the primary server.
We’ve got to “keep them separated.”
Like that stinky song.
“Keep them segregated.”
Like the Old South.
Or today’s jailhouse.
Which is to say:
I’m an optimistic cosmopolitan.
Perhaps even an Optimistic Cosmopolitan.
I grew up in the multi-cult.
And I have lived its benefits.
It is worth examining its downsides.
And long past time of discussing them.
And dealing with them.
The cybersecurity guy, he is autistic and literalistic as fuck, right, and he kept trying to seek all these outs and explanations for “why things are the way they are,” the Nature and State of Observable Physical Reality (N.S.O.P.R.), however you might see it, right, and he’s confabulating all these “well what if” x y z scenarios that just literally do not map to any such N.S.O.P.R. i.e. there is a vacuum that calls into existence the need for a Dude Go For a Walk Look at Things What Do You Think? party (snappier name needed if we are to retain the catchy Hubbardian thread of e.g. O.C., N.S.O.P.R.).
IT INSTANTIATES ITSELF.
I think ultimately he got me to Fully Qualify my statement to something like “democracy can only work with an educated population with full affinity i.e. people who generically ‘like’ each other and want to participate in a communal project with common goals, values, and virtues.”
And I’m like, shit, on reflection—
There is effectively no existing expression of this sentiment that doesn’t rhyme with “We must secure the existence of our people” but again I’m Optimistic Cosmopolitan Swine (O.C. Swine) who wants to live an Advanced Integrationist Hedonic Existence of e.g. all the world’s pleasures, all the animals gather and share their treasures, their nuggets and knowledge and tales and travails, their stories and struggles and strong-brewed ales and sournesses whines complaints and designs, their Triumphs really . . .
. . .
Speaking of thumb wrestling, Another Other Night Out in what I assume was a World Cup-related incident I met some Monegasque people partying in the street.
A Monegasque if you must ask is not a type of monkey but rather an apeman like you or I (Ed. Note: Presumptuous to assume that future audiences will be e.g. hominid or will experience the “text” (sic) as intended by “the Author” (sic) rather than through less problematic means than e.g. lexemes language or any expression of human textuality or e.g. Individuated Names Consciousness (I.N.C.)) — these ones wore velvet double-breasted suits casino fabulous with faggy little silk neckscarves.
As it happened that night I myself was wearing a F.L.S.N. and so they approached me as a familiar, due to the obvious overlap of our interests.
They were shocked that I had been to Monaco.
I was shocked anyone was “from” “there.”
Monaco being what it is.
Turns and twists.
Spurned taxes.
Their Leader — I forget his name, but it was sumptuous, not some Regular Jacques Jean or Louis, you could tell this motherfucker had gráve accents in his shit, a real particular arrangement of vowels, some Old World shit, fuck only knows.
A King’s Name.
(A.K.N.)
Anyway he wanted to thumb-wrestle me, like for real, and so it’s like three or four (I’m an unreliable witness but an honest one, I swear’s ye) of these dudes in velvet suits and three girls in full-on fur coats and Expensive Russian Whore sort of dresses and they’ve all got very particular cigarettes and I’m high as shit kind of dressed like a wealthy restomod Porsche mechanic in a camel suede jacket, Japanese corduroy cropped five-pocket trousers, and blistered Barbanera boots with silent toes and clacking heels, with the
green corduroy SCALED ALPS ‘Let the Alpine Play’ (L.T.A.P. (LT////A▶)) hat
available here via BLUE HELL.
And I beat this dude’s ass at thumb wrestling, just like overwhelming immediate victory, three times in a row.
And the girls giggled, and I wondered if I was going to be murdered.
So I suggested rock/paper/scissors.
And a new game was afoot.
Beat all their asses at that, too.
Girls and guys alike.
America, America.
Ha-ha-ha, yes.
And wanting more.
We walked up Sunset to the liquor store.
“Best bar in town.”
They laughed.
I was serious.
Pounded champagne-hopped ciders in the fog of their cigarette smoke.
Wondered how the fuck lost they’d gotten to get here.
Reckon they were probably thinking similarly about me.
So anyway, I was partying in the street.
Which is to say, I have no use or desire for certain forms of unreasonable order.
I understand their imposition — they exist to tamp down on the basest impulses of the lowest of the population.
I resent the group punishment.
And its implications.
Anyone with a fighting spirit and warm blood does.
A guy said something once—
Something about forfeiting essential liberty for temporary safety.
You’ll have to look it up.
Anyway—
Disgust and contempt are valid reflexes.
They’re culture-bound but so are you.
And as it stands or rather swirls you’re attached to a wheel that’ll break you in full.
Constraints you neither asked nor consented to.
Ties.
The collective lie of the law.
The gathered gas of stalled poison.
You’re a platelet in a river bleeding out.
So surf.
Serve.
Something.
If not for self than for god or country.
“I think you’ve forgotten something.”
Whispered instinct.
“You’ve lost touch with me.”
Intoned virility.
“Get off your ass and fucking kill something.”
WHO THE FUCK SAID THAT?
Something about—
What?
Fences and neighbors.
Masters and slavers.
They laugh at legibility.
Loaded with disclaimers.
Lying with statistics.
Whose numbers?
By what count?
Whose toll?
At what cost?
Bound, gagged and shot.
I am sorry for your loss.
Your lot and your lease.
Sorry about your culture.
But our numbers must increase.
█
JAMES QUENTIN DEVINE
mundus vult decipi
