All rise and behold:
He who raises and murders ontology.
Every morning he is on four legs, and
every evening on three.
What mediates these ends—when the sun is
burning brightest—is lost,
as too is all of history.
What is lost: the patience, the labor
and the suffering of the negative.

From his sin proceeds existence.
A violence transubstantiated into the
social bond, and the beauty of Antigone.
In her own right, she becomes a second earth
which we imitate to save us from the first.
In the place of the primordial earth,
she is sacrificed symbolically—thus the
symbol can finally make itself arbitrary.
She’s sacrificed on the altar of the colony, so
her body can be broken up jealously
into compartmentalized territory.
An energy bounded; both to precociously
synthesize it, and to suppress its femininity.

The ends of efficiency eclipse
the means of happiness and health.
Performativity reigns in a manic teleology.
The wretched of the earth are de-personified
and reduced to nothing but technology.

Bellowing out from the chasm of
His churning belly is a quiet voice.
Calmly, it makes a claim about
the truth of his utility; but the
Truth can only yet be revealed half honestly:
"Blood and misery stick to the triumphs of society,
the rest is ideology." -Horkheimer

The rest is what is found(ing/-in) me
clinging seemingly hopelessly to hope.
I am an appearance.
I Am splitting everything in two, like egos or the red sea.

Find me please, someone.
Anyone lack(ing/-in) the Truth
I am powerless.
I am composing the shadow of the very life I protest.

Each breath of this life is spent wasting itself.
I live a life which has outlived its own ratio,
and all it has left to imitate is the very
death which took place in the past.
That past—that debt—is my will and inheritance.
(It/Will) is what is found(ing/-in) me
ecstatically taking pleasure from the pain
Like turning water into wine to stimulate its profit rate.
Find me calling for the rest:
A ‘rest’ which is both margin and repose.
Both residuals of suffering
and return into nothingness.
Traces which are drowned out by floods.
The floods which rush in after parting
the sea between what-is and what-ought-to-be.
The floods which I nonetheless fantasize
in the very act of producing a totalizing thought.

To arrive at totality: everything must be
broken down, recomposed and accounted for.
The smallest units for totality which
we are given by the sacrificial cult:
Break it all down into pennies, infants and letters.

These splintered units are the very same
with which bodies have been unified.
Unified under a name: the name of a Patriarch.
The name is Logos, which was
projected into the beginning.
Logos, whose name is Law.

Despite this totalizing impulse, the world will overflow the word.

Because the ends are lost, the only vision
left to alienated consciousness is
the discontinuing of everything.
How gentle is the fantasy of beginning again?
But tyranny still rests here, in latency,
for what is this but an apocalyptic fantasy?
So, try this failed intention again.

In the meantime, the self-same is reproduced.
Multitudes broken down to one docile Soul.
As in any system, silence is preferable.
Multitudes recomposed to conform to Forms.
The eternal Forms of blessed anamnesis.
The Forms in which I hide from unforeseen consequence.

In those Forms, life is emptied of content.
Life becomes hollow, and all becomes vanity.

All rise and behold his body
which chains us in the horror of our own.
We lack the Forms after our half-honest disavowal
so now Lack has become a Form.
We feel nothing on the skin we sacrificed.
We feel nothing, except the passage of time.

Found(ing/-in) me, hope and despair unequally
I Am splitting everything in two to grasp this wrong reality.

Find me, someone, anyone tell me
that it is not (y)our fault. I will lend my voice
to suffering so that it may speak honestly.
All the while fearing my obsession with
Justice will destroy my sincerity.

Intercourse blindly made history.
And history dialecticized itself.
It made itself into dialogue.
Beautiful Telos folded into brute Causality.

From where came this pit? This hollow? This hole?
T'was when the Idea encroached on the soul.
The idea of peace: all tranquil, all calm,
It-Self waging war on all not embalmed.

The Idea is whole; seducing us so.
The Idea is death, in wait to unfold.

From when did we need? From when did demand?
Between these two modes, a force reprimands
our clay-addled foot. A shade in pursuit
of all which gives pause, or lets us take root.

Desires its name. It conjures its own.
Its seeds shadow all. In each, they are sown.