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. Welcome to the Kingdom of Us: rotting concrete, where we could have made anything, could have been humans on earth but were too cheap. so content with 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 black rotting streets destroyed my undercarriage,
the highways pulse with commodities;
my house rests between opposing offices;
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?
the 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, we exhaled into overbrimming cash registers that can now buy anything, can only buy us. 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. - Plumbers tie the city together so we can herd ourselves through the streets avoiding the eyes of passing humanity. Our faucets rip off our outer skins every morning so naked waterfall flesh cannot hide behind dirt reality while beneath our plodding feet our true skin of grime eats away at sewer walls
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" Saturday, September 10, 2005