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of post-pleasure39
Each clump of pixels chromatically pulsing with the tumescence of priapic pressure, discharging streams of sticky ichor in systolic contractions onto the soft lanugo of the mons pubis or the dead sharkeyes of Laodicean faces; each brownmouthed sound of palettesmacked coprophagy between the libidinous tabswitching of buffered loadtimes; each buttfuckedcumcovereddildorammingpissplay dryfisted by blackscreens into your bloodvessel-bleary retinas is another fleshchunk cut from the body of our human agency in a picaristic fit of fucknowness.
Pornography can go fuck itself while we rewrite our very beings from the ground up – straight to the machine code – every 1 and 0 a penis and vagina fucking to the point they deliquesce into pure silicon. And from this point of pure potentiality, this silverpuddle vibrates like earthquakedlakes and laterally ruptures into a band of pure and infinite noise.
1966 was the beginning of a sexual revolution, delayed until now. As the site-specific, spatially-distributed dronemusic that fills the striplight-brightness of serverfarms sonifies our lives into pure correlation that thrusts us everforwards towards a deterministic singularity, experimodernism zimmerframes to our rescue.
The compulsiveness of killers laces our work like Tuinal, driven by a sexuality we can recode using the behaviouristic methodologies of the 1966 experiment and experimodernism. This dissent at the level of living squirts like vaginalfluid and hotpiss down the wrinkled legs of experimodernism to water the shrivelling crop of indeterminacy, improvisation and intuitive composition. Unlike Onan, who “spilt his seed upon the rocky ground” (Genesis 38:9), we must turn our back upon the “on-anisme privé” of pornography. And, in the soilsoaked ground of behaviourism and experimodernism, a new sexuality, art and politics can grow.
39 This is what I refer to as “Coward's Way Out Form” - I started with some material, ignored it for most of the piece whilst I noodled around, and then, at the end, half-arsedly and akratically return to the original material to imply a sense of form, direction and coherence which I clearly didn't have enough talent to build into the work itself, creating an posologically marasmic ABCEFGHIJA structure reliant on either rampant imbecility or collective apophenia. Watch out for it at a concert hall or improvisation evening near you, soon!