Dirty filthy garments and open, gaping wounds

There is, I fear, within me, deeply rooted, the now unwavering conviction that we must be destroyed.

How else will our Dear Earth be rid of the Contemporary Narcissus? His foppery infuriates me. My wrath is fuelled by his self-righteous manners, banners, avatars.

‘Will we succeed in creating new ways of being together?’ The question was asked long ago. And we failed, and failed again. And even failed to fail better.

Ours is a society that has not had an image of itself for decades, and all the while, it has been obsessed with self-representation.

I cannot stand this slow burn disaggregation, this flabby parasitic existence of our Western Globalised Cuntré.

‘Lost in the layers and torn from the inside.’ We’ve had enough of that, haven’t we?

Let’s cut the bullshit. No more half measures. Let us explode, of our own accord, and let what reservoirs of humanity are left on the planet fertilise the Earth again with the seeds of wonder we abandoned long ago.

Dirty filthy garments and open, gaping wounds

Let us proceed to our last poetic movement.

[Le Démon] jette dans mes yeux pleins de confusion
Des vêtements souillés, des blessures ouvertes,
Et l’appareil sanglant de la Destruction!

Destruction, Charles Baudelaire

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And as I press the button to detonate this cherished bomb of mine, my own weapon of mass self-destruction, I wonder: ‘When will my own friends come to arrest me?’