The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


the violence of the world.

what i write is denied.
what is constituted by auto-complete structures me.
you are my skeleton and my synaptic breakdowns.
synapses are bridged by your presence.
you make my connections and you rape me.
you fill my holes with junk auto-completions.
what's most trivial, the prion and its violence.
pion - prion - prison or the fabric of the world.
you add names where i want none. you add friends.
friends, you do not know me.
friends, you like or unlike me and i am split in two.
what i think you will never read or write.
what i write is always already cauterized.
you insist on friendship and the violence of
  represented skin.
you insist on the hole which keeps you out of trouble
  and which troubles me.
you are made of shattered pronouns which skitter
  sideways and slaughter me.
you drop names at the sign of the partial signifier.
you fill in my thoughts with your own and my mouth
  is stuffed with them and my mouth is stuffed with
  you.
you call yourself facebook but you have no face.
you call yourself google but you are not myriad.
you call yourself youtube but you are not torn apart,
  you are not raped, your eyes are not gouged out,
  you guarantee the seen.
you guarantee the visible.
you guarantee my writing and you guarantee, you swear,
  you are only for the good, you only do good, as you
  reconstruct the psyche, replacing thought with
  cleverness and the tokens of capital.
my denial is part of you and the denial of my writing
  becomes my writing and i choke on your shit until it's
  transformed into drones, robots, and aphorisms.
you think you're on my side but you're vacated.
my bones are not my bones, my mind is not my mind.
i am aphorism, i am auto-complete: type me in and
  something else appears.
that something else is me.

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