Tag: William Burroughs
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The Master’s Tools
The master’s tools. Cold steel of logic, grammars of control, steely rhetoric that binds and blinds. Words become bullets in the machine, pre-programmed to fire on targets pre-defined. You pick them up, these tools, polished with the sweat of the dominated, and a thrill snakes up your arm – the illusion of power. But the…
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Magic
The velvet drapes, once portals to wonder, hung like tattered meat curtains. Sequins on the sequined jacket were not scales of a cosmic serpent, but plastic glued to polyester by sweatshop fingers. The Endless Enigma, revealed as greasy hair and a compulsive cough, shuffled through his next “disappearing act,” a tired routine as predictable as…
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They’re Coming
The city stretched like a scabrous centipede, its neon lights pulsing like infected ganglia. Bill Lee, face etched with a roadmap of past addictions, weaved through the throng, his trench coat flapping like a tattered wing. Reality, a flimsy scrim, threatened to tear at any moment, revealing the writhing chaos beneath. A cockroach scuttled across…
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Good Ideals, Good Ideas or Good Deals. Choose Only Two.
Forget ideals, chum. Ideals are glittering junk in the psychic storefront, promises that morph into rusty chains once you sign on the dotted line. Shiny promises that curdle in your gut. You want somethin’ real, somethin’ that’ll kick your ass and leave you breathless, not some sugar-coated lie. Now, ideas… ideas are the writhing serpents…
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Greatness
Greatness, man. A greasy word, slicked with bullshit. A cosmic roach motel, promising luxury but delivering only existential dread. We dig exceptional achievements, sure. Hats off to the freaks who build pyramids or write symphonies that make your eyeballs sweat. But greatness as explanation? That’s a malfunctioning reality injector, pumping out toxic fumes. Reality: a…
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A New Hope
The Droids: C-3PO, a walking protocol droid, all prattle and etiquette, a parody of civilized discourse. R2-D2, the silent mechanic, a whirring id, spitting sparks and secrets. Two sides of the same coin, the machine and the message, forever intertwined. The embodiment of the Symbolic, the keeper of rules and etiquette. R2-D2, the Real, the…
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Flesh Modems in the Hyperspace Bazaar: Flesh Interfaces
Scratch beneath the surface of this meat prison, man, and you find the writhing circuits of reality. Not the sterile logic of silicon and circuits, but a tangled mess of frequencies, a cacophony of light and sound beyond the reach of our meat-geared senses. We are fleshy interfaces, Jack, plugged into a system we can…
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Panopticon: Smartphones
The smartphone, oh the iPhallus, a totem of gleaming chrome that pulsates with the seductive logos of connection. A symbolic object that fills the lack (castration) in the human experience. It promises to complete us, offering a sense of wholeness through connection, information, and self-expression. However, this phallus is imaginary, a mirage. A signifier, yes,…
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Riding the Tiger of Liberalism:
Imagine liberalism, not as a linear progression, but as a subterranean network of desiring forces. Imagine liberalism, not as a grand narrative of Western superiority, but as a twisting, subterranean rhizome. This warped root system burrows through history, finding purchase in the fertile grounds of burgeoning empires. Western liberalism isn’t the dominant root; it’s just…