8888

HERE WHERE THERE (I could not read or write until I was 6 years old)

“History is in the mouth of the teller” (draft/unfinished)

up this vitreous

    counting to null

     cut flashing over the

trading

of hydroponic 

      muddy feet 

               for mandarins, the unknown mob 

    where mosquito disperses 

          your heart-rhymes

a clean cup

A Clean Cup, silicone, sand 2018

from morning till four in the afternoon because no one is above the law (draft/unfinished)

                 

  a care of 

scuds England 

to churning 

gala hands in 

    the motherland

      at least the putsch 

   in the ground

       cannot escape justice 

         this must be known high

staked and blackened

with the dead ratios

upturned face to face

a taking away of

     the removed 

and the remainder

E-FIT or Why Humanizing Algorithms Is a Good Idea (6/6)

E-FIT or Why Humanizing Algorithms Is a Good Idea (5/6)

E-FIT or Why Humanizing Algorithms Is a Good Idea (4/6)

E-FIT or Why Humanizing Algorithms Is a Good Idea (3/6)

E-FIT or Why Humanizing Algorithms Is a Good Idea (2/6)

E-FIT or Why Humanizing Algorithms Is a Good Idea (1/6)

my narrative without consent

 

      

And is ownership the only path by which we recognize a claim of right? Does a claim of

right confer, as it has been often suggested, a concomitant responsibility? Is this

responsibility a matter of morality or of ethics? If we assume, at this point safely, that

history is plural, and that objects have an existence separate from their authors, then

ownership, being as unfixed and perspectival as history itself, is too slippery a handle,

too long a line. For it would seem that the artist owns something in the work and the

public owns something else, and the next public another thing altogether. Leaving

aside, for the moment, any private claims of ownership and right, or whether the thing

itself has some right to persist despite or throughout these shifts. This would appear to

be the role of the art institution, to provide a berth for this thing that contains and creates

its histories. And the role of art historian, to provide a berth for the historical institution

as it maneuvers along its public and private lines. For if it was the formerly the

Government that deemed works obscene, it is now social media, and the communal-

corporate (and perhaps other government) -sponsored veridiction of a public opinion,

which plays the part of what can be seen. And why some things cannot.

To put it very simply, the question seems to be no longer what is art, but why is art.

LITTLE FLY

genre humain 3

     the cornerstone 

           is known animal,

                      our nature as doublet 

         by number

                    to comfort

          in milk thistle 

             the payless

      rule burned out 

      the autolysis, 

 called in salt 

     the downed breathe

              stay up driven

    in the fall body

banking blood

         by clock saline  

            punched  in the snare 

            innervation tranche 

off sleep tachycardia 

dales (draft/unfinished)

the sidereal 

 upkeep of place 

or where it belongs 

in separation allotted 

to live up 

each company 

must learn 

to register before

for the lip up 

lift for hours, explaining 

truces the city is 

      cinematic milling 

 jump from star to star

blood modes off

days its opposite 

Ashes scattered in Bali

anonymous tangle of bodies

However great the revulsion that can be felt in contact with a single corpse, especially when it is in an advanced state of decomposition, or marked with the traces of an ignoble extremity of agony (torture in particular), this is massively augmented—and not merely quantitatively—when one is confronted by heaps or mounds of corpses; the stacked remains of an ossuary, the human remnants from an extermination camp, piles of skulls, anonymous tangles of bodies in the Ugandan bush or at the edge of a Kampuchean paddy field. The corpse not as a lost person, but as a disintegrating clot in the depersonalized refuse of death. Sade’s writings are not without such images, but nor are the mass media of twentieth-century societies. It is only at the lip of such abysmal indignities, when bodies are vomited as faceless masses of Herakleitean dung, that one glimpses the filthy and senseless death one craves. 

Spawned by unilateral difference, the human animal is a hybrid of sentience and pathology; or of differentiated consistency with matter. Knowing that its community with nature sucks it into psychosis and death mankind valorizes its autonomy, whilst cursing the tidal desires that tug it down towards fusional dissolution. Morality is thus the distilled imperative to autonomous integrity, which brands as evil the impulse to skinless contact and the merging of bodies. 

FULL AUTO (Film-still) ongoing

on the inside of your heart 

the city is not place 

my belly was my sun-dial 

. The set is empty. No positive content, instead we have absolute self-reference, a negative relation to predicates that would define it. This is the beginning. When a thing names itself, including itself and its name, we can begin counting.

And is ownership the only path by which we recognize a claim of right? Does a claim of

right confer, as it has been often suggested, a concomitant responsibility? Is this

responsibility a matter of morality or of ethics? If we assume, at this point safely, that

history is plural, and that objects have an existence separate from their authors, then

ownership, being as unfixed and perspectival as history itself, is too slippery a handle,

too long a line. For it would seem that the artist owns something in the work and the

public owns something else, and the next public another thing altogether. Leaving

aside, for the moment, any private claims of ownership and right, or whether the thing

itself has some right to persist despite or throughout these shifts. This would appear to

be the role of the art institution, to provide a berth for this thing that contains and creates

its histories. And the role of art historian, to provide a berth for the historical institution

as it maneuvers along its public and private lines. For if it was the formerly the

Government that deemed works obscene, it is now social media, and the communal-

corporate (and perhaps other government) -sponsored veridiction of a public opinion,

which plays the part of what can be seen. And why some things cannot.

nike-knifes

***

 ‘i’d rather live outside’ and ‘this is not my life’ means that psychic extinctness is (not) actually lived, and that more and more people will project outwards from this essential (mis)recognition. extinct feeling, and not feeling extinct. but to feel that. ‘nikes’ becomes a slash of the extincto-thanato difference on the inside of your heart. psychic extinctness is not something to be grown out of but the main principle of a life to be lived, if it now can be lived.

To the Huts (second version)

off  irate nerve presets

        next to my

          accomplished alarm

          locked day and 

            night out now

                             livid in cellulose

                                its orbital home moving

                             stupid    liquid forever

                 in the curing 

                            of sleep  

            you can not decline 

                   fillings excite 

                   the  big zeroes  

                  as  crown pains

                   camp in

                      the     baked   sky 

                         diagnoses

                           the fracas   as illustrated

                            trauma made  the  bloodline

                           mute

                                          the vein in circulation,

              our ears are 

                            now      in excellent 

                     condition as the sound

                    is almost always 

                           awful clocking

                               scathes       the hum 

                       about  the  streets    

                                    struck    the throat 

                                with   blood  

                     padlocked bursts-

       that is proof enough 

                                        never          counts

                       feral under

                   baton rounded

                                        cost pride   into a 

                 large bolus, its texture 

       marbled the 

                       larynx

               taking          charge

               of lifetime 

                                      disposals 

                       as the crest 

speaks for 

                          what is              won,

                     chokes  the sky and 

crosses it  

                                              through 

we have 

                     the                 cadastre 

singing out, 

                                clear      keys 

                              uptake the floating

                 scale  matured 

               chime        kick 

      lock for free

                                        the voice           sealed 

                       in the        ring outcry, 

                           futures and     options 

                                 cut up

                                             the    night no

                                      one      wants to see

               the ballistic gelatine    record 

                    since    it has decreed          the air,

mixed with bone 

in the panic 

rotor see from the 

bioethical shard 
between the shutters

     no jobs marches 

        amok over

        the proud varicose 

                   fat on sun-loungers,    

watch the juvenile 

                 lash out   

                  now          watch

          the choppy  sink 

                in badlands

                      the saturnalia 

       so  eat the

         chicken-wings

                  gilded in a 

            better        

                                        hour