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positionality statement
02:20
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i don't wanna live no more, Death knocking out when i'm knocking on their front door with such force that i split it, coldcock to the top of their grim visage, ticking off the minutes until they replenish. is my psychosis divine or depressive? is depression some type of divine intervention? i'm skeptical. waging jihad upon my body with what the devil's invented. spectacular flesh rent, been living at the limit skinless, convinced the witnesses crying witless is frightened by my ambiguousness in the phenotype arena, rather then the patina of scabs irrigated by lymphatic weepings. no nigga but mulatto like that's different, identify as mixted like that don't erase the history and vision of the wicked. tryna run with my winnings, yellow bone Putney Swope in the Havana fit, it's time to split. oh, shoot, been stewing in a gooey tomb, consumed by the matrix, dissociating cause there ain't no spoons. world is getting smaller quick, hand into an anxious fist, grasping at stale sentiments, retracing staid platitudes like "what else is philosophy but madness? only the maddest, they stay scrabbling for solid ground access." hand into an anxious fist that's tugging at my grubby dick, that's digging out these withered seeds, that's spreading them across my chest in lieu of a logo or logic. just tossing off to my toxic fantasizing, not so much excited by the fantasies themselves. calling all of Aesop's seven hells, the four foreseeable futures out horseback riding. "stop eliding the horrible shit you've done" comes bounding off my bedroom walls, resounding til my number's up, and then i am no rapper, rather, tagless cadaver full of rotgut gas animating idle chatter.
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If there's anybody here who can impersonate a pilot, it'd be a comfort to the other passengers. If there's anybody here who can surmount their fear of flying long enough to guide this dying metal bird to where she's bound, we haven't seen the sun for 20 hours, been in nosedive the whole time but we haven't hit the ground, so it might sound futile to try to bring us back around. But it's trying that we're trying for, that alone would astound.
If there's anybody onboard who can impersonate a pilot, it'd go a ways toward keeping all the passengers quiet as we fly into this endless night what defeats our appliances, these damned meters reading we're at negative height? Never mind the screaming from the cabin. Never mind the eerie silence sweeping through the first class aisles, the rusty liquid seeping out from underneath the curtain in between an unspeakable act and you trifling coach riders.
If there's anybody here who can impersonate a pilot, sitch is ride or likely die, so you might as well try it. What happened to the pilot? Probably best to not describe it. What's become of them or, really, what they have become--about which you cannot speak, better be quiet. That said, should anyone step up, keep your eyes closed on approach. We'll Marco Polo you toward the cockpit door. Ignore the warm wetness seeping through your shoes. Get up here and we'll loop you in. Got experience with sidearms, too?
If there's anybody here certified as an electrician, maybe someone with a degree in electromagnetic spec fictive physics, inspect the intercom system. Despite the power loss, it keeps issuing these missives, somehow mimicking my voice. As you can see, I'm in the aisle, smiling wide, smiling broken wide, prying the emergency exit while the coach class tries, in vein, to restrain me in vein. I'll show these red-eyed peons what's beyond the waves: A smiling ocean, likewise broken, stowing ageless pains.
If there's anybody here afeared of what we're nearing, be assured, this message will repeat with no one left to hear it. If there's anybody here afeared of what we're nearing, be assured, this message will repeat with no one left to hear it. If there's anybody here afeared of what we're nearing, be assured, this message will repeat with no one left to hear it. If there's anybody here afeared of what we're nearing, be assured, this message will repeat with no one left
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Awoken sweating, smoke spreading through the compound. Bound reflexive for the exit when alarm sound. Howling breathless when hand comes down on the doorknob. Palm skin slips off.
Fire behind the door. Entire highrise, escalator and staircase, all access denied. Take a different type flight to not fry alive, but the only window nearby is thicker than Pyrex. It can't be pried, yet, finna try and get it open and hope the fall ain't broken, just the bones most apt to stab the seat of all hopelessness. No notice to inferno encroaching. It's rolled well past the door, now lapping at the flesh. Death expected, expectation upset: Conscious, not dead yet, 3rd degree burnt 100%. The scent's appalling. Completely insensitive. Clawing and crawling for where backdraft just left window split. Raw meat spotting, seized with scabs then cracking free, seized with scabs then cracking free, tryna grasp beyond the reach. Tryna breach the pane. Praying to feel it on landing. Begging to feel anything else before passing.
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Designs on a machine that mines. That’s all it does.
Specificly strip mines til nothing’s left undug; then, it
Spies where else to mine, expends a lil fuel it’s pried up out the
Guts of whatever celestial body it’s just touched, and it
Flies, arriving whole intact to do it one more
Time. Designs on something like that, on a machine that
mines, that’s all it does, with no motive and no mind. That’s all it
Does. Designs on a machine that mines.
The revolution will not be
Designs on a machine that cries. Allow me to ex-
plain: It repeats the same entreaty all the time, can’t
reprogram otherwise, can’t shut it up, can’t mollify it,
can’t keep it from screaming “the future’s fucking stupid” all the
Time. Trapped inside it, a perpetual motion
engine I’ve already designed, patent pending,
So you cannot apply it for some other enterprise, shit is
Mine, and it’ll drive the forthcoming machine that cries. The
Sign of a machinic rise, but all it does is rein-
force the might-or-flight, the extant levers of power. De-
centralize the bank, toward bringin it back to barter charters,
infrared fenceposts to actualize the borders,
Ads longer than content they preface, presenting passive
Smartphone games played inept grifting you into boredom, et
cetera, hence the designs on the aforementioned ma-
chine that cries, it cries so I don’t gotta, saves me time.
The revolution will not be
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5. |
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* 126x
[any one twenty six characters would've worked work]
Why would some echo out race
A statement so vague as
Once, one time, I was amazed
I was amazed
Why would some echo out race
A statement so vague as
Once, one time, I was amazed
I was amazed
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MxR-ace/EtthnoS Chicago, Illinois
MxR-ace/EtthnoS. Pronounced "Mixed Race Ethnostate". Pronounced "mɪkst reɪs ˌɛθnəˈsteɪt".
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