GRSTALT Comms
from Congress of Current and Future Interns
The Dismantling of the Old Mast
we were decisive nodes | the disruption was decisive | monitors lighting up chunks of smoke | bodies wrapped in black kevlar | cords pulled from ports | sacred transmission downcast | we are a bundle of struggling limbs | rumbling of helicopters | chanting futile mantras | the long coup is perennially imperilled | history’s most fetid luminaries | fantasy scam artists flexing for a remote audience | i take the twisty slide into the slurry | downing fresh air until it feels unnatural |
somebody foraged here once | in amongst the rubber scenery | the rubble of your experience | cleanly disposed of by select contractors | wind demons whip screaming vehicles along neglected concrete | torching the roots | free to run again | we will never die | our hardware will carry us |
i look up to see the mast collapse & sink into the slurry | the city carries the same stink | we were making introductions | laying the ground for a rapprochement with our earliest overseers | exiled from who knows where | pictures from a plentiful past | full of profligate postures | tiptoeing between the blades | this was always a gross indulgence |
The Re-emergence of the Old Maladies
so many bugs scurrying out of fresh cracks | bunching into undulating smudges where signs say: "salvation is in your hands" | echoes of rehearsals for delayed victory parades | rescheduled as memorials for disavowed campaigns | mutant signatories | full of microplastics & remorse | hauling away evidence of someone else's ecstasy | telling themselves cheap morality tales where the wealthy & influential are held to account | putting it all to their mouths | in search of hidden value | getting trapped at the bottom of a commentary pile | beating against paywalls | holding a distinction in dead ends | culturally accredited cranks | decrying the painful sideshow they've created |
it's good to finally locate the definitive spot where you crouch & cringe from the rain | it takes a lot to point on the body exactly where the fault lies | come for the fantasy | stay for the efficacy | drinking from the same puddle as birds |
we were taught to make ourselves small | bracing for the impact | shaving away any extraneous matter | casting off any vestige of a definition | we live with our most unyielding parts | mass mortification drills daily | multiple infusions to stave off invaders | some surface abrasions to relieve tension |
The Discovery of a New Receiver
i didn't (really) diversify my portfolio | i shorted all the most propitious positions | i’m attracted to the surfaces | soaped & smoothed to a shine by men in vests | these are the sites of the dull-eyed tremor | passing looks of resignation | reflected & distorted in the finished & frothing bodies |
the men in vests direct me to the factory | gesturing without any cessation | clocking the camera | i've never stopped occupying these spaces | trapped in temporary constructions that refused to collapse & grew roots | developing an impenetrable shell | shedding its scales onto the street | i wait for the martinet cries to waft down the corridors | i find that all the mouths on the factory floor are full | scraps pass along a conveyor | each selection is pre-destined | a missing internal component | the path of the hand was determined thousands of years ago | each person is given their unique receiver |
the stomach acids are stirred | start to fizz | lubricate the passage into a sector of self-understanding | it’s not about
connecting | it’s about transmitting | casting out for signals | fragments of approbation from more enlightened quarters | we are graded for what we reproduce | what leaves the body & what can be divined from it | there are sorters who decode what is processed & add it to the corpus of longing & light |
connecting | it’s about transmitting | casting out for signals | fragments of approbation from more enlightened quarters | we are graded for what we reproduce | what leaves the body & what can be divined from it | there are sorters who decode what is processed & add it to the corpus of longing & light |
The Disclosure of Dissenting Voices
seven of us in the caravan | our stenches merging | groans of intestinal distress | we are wrapped together | light bleeds
from the frayed edges of the curtains | she whispers into my ear that she’s a journalist | she's working on a book about the shadow economy | she's collecting experiences & she wants to have mine | i start to see the sun | someone could listen | fit me into their thesis | a tribune of struggle & exploitation | i can tell a story | i can harness the metaphors | i can make all the necessary connections | knit together coincidences into a dramatic patchwork | i could stand for a larger injustice |
from the frayed edges of the curtains | she whispers into my ear that she’s a journalist | she's working on a book about the shadow economy | she's collecting experiences & she wants to have mine | i start to see the sun | someone could listen | fit me into their thesis | a tribune of struggle & exploitation | i can tell a story | i can harness the metaphors | i can make all the necessary connections | knit together coincidences into a dramatic patchwork | i could stand for a larger injustice |
i tell her that i dreamed of being able to unlock the hidden versions of myself | to accrue enough credits to dispel any
thought of living with limitations | i never felt that my configuration made sense | however i arranged it | i’d never
been able to find the right codes | i looked into the most efficient vehicle | i found the eternal linkup | i was hooked
into the infinite receiver | we were purely connected beings then | sharing the signals that drift from the debris of creation | some didn’t want to hear what was transmitted | it disrupted the frequency of their own epistles | we were hated | castigated for the veracity of our parallel vision | we walked in groups to fend off the violence | the violence came with the imprimatur of the state | the various methods of systematised agony |
thought of living with limitations | i never felt that my configuration made sense | however i arranged it | i’d never
been able to find the right codes | i looked into the most efficient vehicle | i found the eternal linkup | i was hooked
into the infinite receiver | we were purely connected beings then | sharing the signals that drift from the debris of creation | some didn’t want to hear what was transmitted | it disrupted the frequency of their own epistles | we were hated | castigated for the veracity of our parallel vision | we walked in groups to fend off the violence | the violence came with the imprimatur of the state | the various methods of systematised agony |
The Reception into Subterranean Modes
we are escorted from the premises & we all move on | our stories start to splinter | we are replaced by a new intake from an emerging market | given new breath & a different scent |
the ground is full of unexpected treasures & treats | i collect them as i go | tastes so good | feels so luxurious | creates a familiar ache in the places that churned so productively |
for some it's a stroll | for others it's a trudge | i can feel my presence back on the system | a sub-median human again |
a nightly sweep | the state of exception stands | the faceless dogs are greased & limbered up | a giant white thumb glides by to warn us that curfews are about to come into effect | a set of red eyes bring a christmas glow as they flash across a gallery of shielded faces & boarded up windows | i start to run |
the ground gives way | i drop into darkness | feel something cold & smooth | a hand grabs my arm & directs me | light gathers to throw the mouth of a tunnel into relief | opening onto the intersecting legs of chairs | going up indefinitely | they tell me that this is where they went when they were evicted | they built a refuge from history when it reappeared & made its demands | we live in history’s refuse | the only thing is the bugs |
