I LOVE SAD AND ANGRY MUSIC. I LOVE HOW FUCKED EVERYTHING JUST MIGHT BE AROUND ME. I LOVE LIFE THOUGH. I LOVE BEING TOSSED INTO THIS SHIT PILE OF DRAMA AND HUMAN SUFFERING. I USUALLY LIKE TO KEEP AN ARMS DISTANCES BUT YOU KNOW YOU CANT HAVE EVERYTHING. i LIKE TO OBSERVE WATCH FROM THE OUTSIDE IF YOU WILL. NO THAT DOESN'T MEAN I AM A STALKER. I DON'T CHASE PEOPLE I JUST LOVE JERKY HAPPENSTANCE. I TRY TO BE NICE MOST OF THE TIME MORE OF THE REASON BEING I CANT AFFORD THE KINDA
KARMA THAT COMES WITH AN EVIL SPIRIT BUT ALSO BECAUSE FOR THE MOST PART I THINK GOOD THINGS SHOULD HAPPEN TO PEOPLE I JUST CANT LIE THAT I FIND HUMOR IN IT WHEN IT DOESN'T WERK THAT WAY. BLAH BLAH FAWKIN BLAH....I KNOW SHUT UP!

OK WELL PLEASE READ BOTH BELOW BECAUSE I THINK IT MIGHT BE GOOD INDICATION AS TO MY MIND SET IF YOU CARE AT ALL.

(Dedicated to Ustad Mahmud Ali Abd al-Khabi)
Chaos-HAKIM BEY
CHAOS NEVER DIED. Primordial uncarved block, sole worshipful monster, inert & spontaneous, more ultraviolet than any mythology (like the shadows before Babylon), the original undifferentiated oneness-of-being still radiates serene as the black pennants of Assassins, random & perpetually intoxicated.

Chaos comes before all principles of order & entropy, it's neither a god nor a maggot, its idiotic desires encompass & define every possible choreography, all meaningless aethers & phlogistons: its masks are crystallizations of its own facelessness, like clouds.

Everything in nature is perfectly real including consciousness, there's absolutely nothing to worry about. Not only have the chains of the Law been broken, they never existed; demons never guarded the stars, the Empire never got started, Eros never grew a beard.

No, listen, what happened was this: they lied to you, sold you ideas of good & evil, gave you distrust of your body & shame for your prophethood of chaos, invented words of disgust for your molecular love, mesmerized you with inattention, bored you with civilization & all its usurious emotions.

There is no becoming, no revolution, no struggle, no path; already you're the monarch of your own skin--your inviolable freedom waits to be completed only by the love of other monarchs: a politics of dream, urgent as the blueness of sky.

To shed all the illusory rights & hesitations of history demands the economy of some legendary Stone Age--shamans not priests, bards not lords, hunters not police, gatherers of paleolithic laziness, gentle as blood, going naked for a sign or painted as birds, poised on the wave of explicit presence, the clockless nowever.

Agents of chaos cast burning glances at anything or anyone capable of bearing witness to their condition, their fever of lux et voluptas. I am awake only in what I love & desire to the point of terror--everything else is just shrouded furniture, quotidian anaesthesia, shit-for-brains, sub-reptilian ennui of totalitarian regimes, banal censorship & useless pain.

Avatars of chaos act as spies, saboteurs, criminals of amour fou, neither selfless nor selfish, accessible as children, mannered as barbarians, chafed with obsessions, unemployed, sensually deranged, wolfangels, mirrors for contemplation, eyes like flowers, pirates of all signs & meanings.

Here we are crawling the cracks between walls of church state school & factory, all the paranoid monoliths. Cut off from the tribe by feral nostalgia we tunnel after lost words, imaginary bombs.

The last possible deed is that which defines perception itself, an invisible golden cord that connects us: illegal dancing in the courthouse corridors. If I were to kiss you here they'd call it an act of terrorism--so let's take our pistols to bed & wake up the city at midnight like drunken bandits celebrating with a fusillade, the message of the taste of chaos.

Annan water
You loom so deep and wide
I'll cross over
If you would stem the tide
Build a boat
That I might thwart the other side
To reach the farther shore
Where my true love lies in wait for me
In wait for me
In wait for me
In wait for me

Oh, gray river
Your waters ramble while
The horses shiver
And bide against the bridal
But I will cross
If mine own horse is pulled from me
Though my mother cries that if I try
I sure will drown it be
Will drown it be
Will drown it be
Will drown it be

But if you cull
And let me pass
You may render me a wreck
When I come back
So calm your waves
And slow the churn
And you may have my precious bones on my return

Annan water
Oh hear my true love's call
Hear her holler
Above your water's pall
God, that I could
That my two arms could give me way
And I would cross your breath
And rest my breast about her amber ring
Her amber ring
Her amber ring

But if you cull
And let me pass
You may render me a wreck
When I come back
So calm your waves
And slow the churn
And you may have my precious bones
On my
On my
Return


POETIC TERRORISM-HAKIM BEY


WEIRD DANCING IN ALL-NIGHT computer-banking lobbies. Unauthorized pyrotechnic displays. Land-art, earth-works as bizarre alien artifacts strewn in State Parks. Burglarize houses but instead of stealing, leave Poetic-Terrorist objects. Kidnap someone & make them happy. Pick someone at random & convince them they're the heir to an enormous, useless & amazing fortune--say 5000 square miles of Antarctica, or an aging circus elephant, or an orphanage in Bombay, or a collection of alchemical mss. Later they will come to realize that for a few moments they believed in something extraordinary, & will perhaps be driven as a result to seek out some more intense mode of existence.

Bolt up brass commemorative plaques in places (public or private) where you have experienced a revelation or had a particularly fulfilling sexual experience, etc.

Go naked for a sign.

Organize a strike in your school or workplace on the grounds that it does not satisfy your need for indolence & spiritual beauty.

Grafitti-art loaned some grace to ugly subways & rigid public momuments--PT-art can also be created for public places: poems scrawled in courthouse lavatories, small fetishes abandoned in parks & restaurants, xerox-art under windshield-wipers of parked cars, Big Character Slogans pasted on playground walls, anonymous letters mailed to random or chosen recipients (mail fraud), pirate radio transmissions, wet cement...

The audience reaction or aesthetic-shock produced by PT ought to be at least as strong as the emotion of terror-- powerful disgust, sexual arousal, superstitious awe, sudden intuitive breakthrough, dada-esque angst--no matter whether the PT is aimed at one person or many, no matter whether it is "signed" or anonymous, if it does not change someone's life (aside from the artist) it fails.

PT is an act in a Theater of Cruelty which has no stage, no rows of seats, no tickets & no walls. In order to work at all, PT must categorically be divorced from all conventional structures for art consumption (galleries, publications, media). Even the guerilla Situationist tactics of street theater are perhaps too well known & expected now.

An exquisite seduction carried out not only in the cause of mutual satisfaction but also as a conscious act in a deliberately beautiful life--may be the ultimate PT. The PTerrorist behaves like a confidence-trickster whose aim is not money but CHANGE.

Don't do PT for other artists, do it for people who will not realize (at least for a few moments) that what you have done is art. Avoid recognizable art-categories, avoid politics, don't stick around to argue, don't be sentimental; be ruthless, take risks, vandalize only what must be defaced, do something children will remember all their lives--but don't be spontaneous unless the PT Muse has possessed you.

Dress up. Leave a false name. Be legendary. The best PT is against the law, but don't get caught. Art as crime; crime as art.