Welcome to Poetic Terrorism--a new method of communication. A new vocabulary for resistance. We're opening a new front in the war against soundbytes and corporate catchphrases, because it's impossible to think when your words are controlled by discourse that is manufactured by imperialist corporations and sold to us wholesale in our schools and TVs. Bullshit shoved down our throats by government spokespeople and paid advertising--WE (you) have something to say, SAY IT!
Poetic Terrorism is profoundly nonviolent. It is the resistance of our voices. We are controlled by a submersion tank of manufactured ideas--by the media repeating the talking points of the government.
Poetic terrorism is about bringing the art of resistance into every facet of our lives. Live your life loudly. 'There is no becoming, no revolution, no struggle, no path; already you're the monarch of your own skin--your inviolable freedom waits to be completed only by the love of other monarchs: a politics of dream, urgent as the blueness of sky.'--Hakim Bey
This blog is open to anyone's words and ideas. If you would like to post, email jed.bickman@gmail.com to let me know--I'll give you privileges and then you can post whatever you want.
The sewers are veins with shit for blood, and the city only ever inhales. Trucks fly on fourlane superarteries delivering loads of Doritos to gaping mouths. rotting concrete, glass cages with cash registers. Welcome to the Kingdom of Us, where we could have made anything, could have been humans on earth but were too cheap. Decided we were content with cheap plastic, metaphysics, and gutters. summon the charcoal and chimneys, summon the gas stoves and microwaves. we will eat tonight, don’t worry about that, keep shopping. keep shooting. And someday, we'll move out to the suburbs, dear.
..... my fluid seeks sewers to feed myself, my city, but these foundational beams of rotting streets destroyed my undercarriage,
the highways pulse with commodities
my house rests between skyscrapers
I can look through my windows to my attorney.
his aggression opposes what in a domestic animal, cold open space, large enough to work with isolation?
city is the possession, the men in it middlemanaging, cubicles.
You have to consume real estate to be human, distance, square footed, in which a beloved kitchenette is heaven, for example. ....
My sewers, my blood, I felt my city around upon me rumbling down upon the long high superways, I felt my mouths crying for Doritos, And we exhaled into overbrimming cash registers that can now buy anything, can only buy us, reaming our foodstamps over again Welcome to my house, gridded and grey, where we could have had a future, we could have been here before, but we were too cheap. Give me your kitsch! your scams! your hungry! Don't worry, inhale, your fiery riots will wait for tomorrow. we are an island of torment in a sea of white picket topped waved American Dream. .... The city was there as I was there flowing inside the shreds of newsprint soaked in the sludge of all our industrial and self secretions. there, my bottom half rubberized, my shirt covered in shit that steeped down from fifty stories of city.
Some shitleak under 16th street years of someone’s acid vomit corroding the pipes. Leaking into drinking water obese consumers blindly wallowing in themselves. ... our sewers wrap us together in dreamy abstraction our faucets rip our outer skin off every morning, and pure waterfall flesh cannot hide behind dirt reality. Plumbers tie cities together so that we may roam streets avoiding the eyes of passersby. our cities enable solipsistic self images masterbatory subcultures conversation murdered by perfectly accessorized pictured people.
" 
" Wednesday, June 29, 2005