This May Be The Last Time Singing

Por   ・ Inglaterra
Image: Edgar M. Caamaño 6 febrero, 2018

Writing is a method for transcribing cosmic intensity into sustainable portions of being.
Rosi Braidotti

 

The following poem is not called ‘Best of the Noughties’. The following poem could have been written in Spanish by the author, but it just wasn’t. The following poem was written very far away from the mountain couple of Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl. The following poem is a sustainable portion of being (unless printed in new, non-eco friendly paper, then scrunched and tossed onto the motorway). The following poem is the result of a scientific and statistical observation of simple, mundane aspects of the intensity of a cosmos located at a so-called Planet Earth, during one of its internal cycles, officially named XXIst century. The following poem is one of many possibilities of a transcription, and contains even more possibilities for translations.

The following poem is written in English because the internet’s hashtags, codes and signs tend to be typed or spoken into it via the English language. The following poem strives to belong to the linguistic village of Globish. The following poem strives to be a drowning song towards voids of information. One day, as more internets are built and more people work for them/in them, and as the data and information battles progress their dominations of minds, bodies and land resources, the following poem could happen inside those connections only in Russian (интернет) or only in party-friendly and properly controlled Mandarin (互联网). It could happen at the era of increase of our senses, by the change in the perceptive intensity of our other senses; see image 1 and 2.

Image: Edgar M. Caamaño

Image: Edgar M. Caamaño

The following poem could also stop happening. The following poem explains very little about our present, because art has small power. The following poem, as a portion of being, pulsates, eyaculates, digests, menstruates, sheds, ages, cries and laughs, perishing with ‘ourselves’ and rebirthing with ‘This’. The following poem should have started with ‘And’.


It shines, in the stories we tell ourselves,
a spark of contradiction
so when the fire quickly spreads
who’s going to hold the most powerful of us accountable?

If i became one with power
and ruined people’s lives with all angsts decisions and sheer determination
would i go and die in house arrest?
Or, if i follow and obey,
then fault lies in my leader’s contradictions not my own.

Perhaps we wouldn’t understand them if they weren’t confusing us all the time with our contradictions.

You told us that true love lasts forever
then we went back to another’s arms
for negative consequences are not part of my family’s inheritance.

Don’t wonder about my truth and lie.

Gulp down my language
wait for your pay check
act accordingly.

Our future won’t wait.

Teach our children a warped history
of only good people and bad people
there will always be us and them my child yes sir.

We toast to no truth and vote on no trust
there is only action relentless action
no coherence no going backwards.

There is no essence once we accept
we are nothing
and can’t be nothing but information.

We are clicked and liked.

What am i, if not the information behind my passwords?

Mine are the words and the numbers
and the infinite information space in which i pour them into
i can almost whisper that i am, and i am not, just contradiction, but also a bit of truth.

A quark of truth

Or even a smaller particle which cannot be named,
valued or quantified radiating and exploding
with a one and only truth.

Image: Edgar M. Caamaño

Not universes but it is a truth
that we inhabit and outhabit multiverses.

We habitants, The People,
voting mass and measure of someone’s failure or success
we are nothing and we move everything.

All the gossip in the world yelling in our ears.

Suffer the rewards and reap the aftermath.

Indeed highly advanced in comparison to our ancestors
in comparison to succulents and other pre-designed house plants too.

Only the strong divide,
rule and survive
eating their young if need be, i eat i
don’t shy your eyes away from our routine cannibalism
consume all social classes
eat into cancer obesity
or gag in anorexia
keep a steady growth of control
a steady hand, steady
and cut my chest open
pluck out my heart and simmer it down with olive oil
or better yet bid it on the dark web for the best offer.

Will my heart remember?
will it keep some of the blood that flowed through my brain
and hence have cells of my ideas?
you should know,
dear buyer of my heart,
that you have not just purchased a healthy organ
but a flesh-usb of carousel feelings
you are buying an experience.

Emotions, our best free flowing renewable energy
we can’t stop feeling
laughing forever at cats
crying forever at starving children.

The rhythm of contradiction is the beat
to which our stomachs dance the best
so what are we playing at?

Bismillah a man gets killed and we dance fandango
it all started with nonsense
most of what we are, a silhouette of a species?
we are real fantasies of virtual life reality, we carry on,
any way the information blowing out of our screens takes us.

At the prospect of extinction
by our own hand easy come easy go
little high tide little low oxygen
fearing death we don’t want to die
we don’t want to be born again either.

Mama, we just killed a human, and it was ourselves.


 

Responsibility for the information and views set out in this publication lies entirely with the authors. And do not necessarily reflect the official opinion of Miradas Múltiples.

Comparte: This May Be The Last Time Singing

por

Inglaterra

Ocupado (a veces distraído) con textos, charlas, triques y canciones.
Contacto

Ver artículos relacionados