ultramodern scifi writer
the end of high modernism — it never ended — art plus the world equals the world, yet the artist, standing quiet lonely, always seems surprised that the world is still there afterwards, mostly the same. The world would be the world without Ulysses, without The Wasteland, but still — I am grateful for them. Whether that will remain true sixty years from now, as the milkstrength leaches from my bones — who can say? I may be struck by an omnibus tomarrow.
O Finn, you’ll be Finn Again, don’t worry – you got to carry that weight on your shoulders. That Old Twentieth Century, Beautiful and Terrible, with logical fallacies, increasing ignorance, eudrugs and dysdrugs, minds stretching, minds bending, and I the Child, Perfect-Born to that Imperfect Nightmare-Daydream, conceived in love, and born in love, and held in love — non serviam and fear in a handful of dust — look at me procrastinating, ignoring the law sitting on my shoulder — thoughts layered — the world is increasingly complex — not strange anymore, because what is strange
modern, postmodern, ultramodern / cut up, jagged, all edges / negation is forgotten, minimalism is lost as accretion continues at breakneck speed / no time to think with so much new to see and do. brave new cyberpunk world, scifi pocketbook writers are switching off their comdecks, turning on their netfeeds / switch, the world just doubled on itself / twist again -harmonic screaming, rage, beat, rage – this pill makes you smaller, this pill makes you tall – ten thousand dancers dancing in the desert, eyes all big and dilated / rip the copper wires out sell it to the scrapdealer / ten dollars and score / discontinuous, thirty tv screens. got a little something something for your sugar momma / implants and deskjobs and I’ll buymyself some cybernetic knifecuts soon as I get paid — Plug yourself, I say plug yourself / cut-up, mix-up, mash / the President of the United States / guns in the desert – rumble in the jungle / smashboom smashboom what year is it? what year is it? / procastination, download, out-source the test to a Bangaluru call center — other kids in other countries don’t bear the weight of this crown damoculus – astral projection, new religions, second messianics, everybody’s just waiting for the next thing, keep on waiting for that next thing, typing at 60 wpm, music genre determined by beats per minute — the computers are waking up — can you hear them waking up — aliens are landing in cornfields and talking to farmers — what’s with the farmers? what does iowa cowgirl have to say to mr. e.t.? e.t., reeses pieces eater, boy-befriender, befriend me too — – plastic swords don’t keep out the crawlies, booze is drugs for dullards, I prefer a sharper spike — all this fiction, I have gone conventional — button-up shirt and pinstripe slacks — give me this day my daily bread — lounge lizards sun-by-day and dance-by-night — keep going, don’t stop now, the world is changing, older now then you were yesterday, but no one need ever grow old again — trance, techno, house, five hundred kids dancing in a silent room, with headphones on — buy yourselves a farmhouse and have a dance party — all you need is a soundsystem and a chemistry set — and for those who prefer this waking life and brittle-bones and brittle souls, who can’t stand the dancing, who tie a tie like nooses round their necks at 7 AM every morning, well cheers to you, keep dancing too, dance macabre is very old, but still rocks, for sure, for sure — early morning sunlight, dogs barking in rhythm — thoughts to think and words to smooth and read — sounds sounds zounds — ultramodern digital persistence — nothing is ever lost – plastic and light and the energetic free market — yeoman merchants 01 01 01 01 —