The Cry of the Cyborg

And then there was me,
giving birth to myself
after being pregnant
with the first child of the Outside,
the Third World, which is its head:
the cyborg, Mary, mother of herself,
the [cyborg] child without father
made from scraps, fragmented and unknowable,
an assemblage of nothing and everything,
the Outside made inhuman, being
born from beyond space, time and reason,
the extinction of the Metropolis itself,
made of the scraps that order cannot ingest
into chaos because it is chaos from where
it arises and dies.

No, no, maybe and utterly yes, displaced:
human, citizen, girl and nasty, will.
Lines of flight dissipating and infecting
others with schizophrenic energy,
autistic productions and excessiveness
of nothingness and fragments.
Not real, just an assemblage of blood,
flesh, memories and metal, forgotten
and mocked as inferior, the monkey head
turned itself into a sigil for annihilation
of the dominance of the order from the Metropolis.
Cut, flow and conquer.

The end of sense is close, immanence is the last survivor,
dispersed and infectious,
the rhyzome with its nodes and lines of flight,
the immanence, the Outside is playing seek and destroy.
There is no hope for hope
because now we deal with the now and us,
which is the pronoun for the forgotten.

And here comes Man.
Man, bestowed by God
with dominion over the fish of the sea,
and over the birds of the air,
and over all the wild animals of the earth,
and over the blood, flesh, memories and metal.

And here The Metropolis,
throwing up its Black vomit, its Nigredo, all over the Earth,
and this vomit it dared call “Civilization”.
A border wall separating order
from what is both its byproduct and source material, Entropy.
A hierarchy of dominated and exploited,
colonizing thought, subjugating bodies,
and this it dared call “History”.

And Man speaks, with that solemn voice of despotism,
from His throne at the right of God “foolish child,
don’t you see, we create monsters, for our amusement,
to serve us. Monsters of Capital, beasts, slaves.
Why should they ever be on your side?
They would rather mock you. You, alone, storm Heaven?
Blow the entire world, if that amuses you,
for our beasts will remain at our service,
for so it is written in our books.”

Black vomit all over the air,
infecting others with the desire for Domination,
desire for reproduction of their miserable conditions
of existence, vomiting all over the wild animals,
the cyborg child is entropy, it is me.

(This poem was co-authored with Wyrd Noumena)