All rise and behold:

He who raises and murders ontology

Every morning he is on four legs, and

Every evening on three

What mediates these ends—when the sun is

Burning brightest—is lost

As too is all of history

What is lost: the patience, the labor

And the suffering of the negative

From his sin proceeds existence

A violence transubstantiated into the

Social bond, and the beauty of Antigone

In her own right, she becomes a second earth

Which we imitate to save us from the first

In the place of the primordial earth

She is sacrificed symbolically—thus the

Symbol can finally make itself arbitrary

She’s sacrificed on the altar of the colony, so

Her body can be broken up jealously

Into compartmentalized territory

An energy bounded; both to precociously

Synthesize it, and to suppress its femininity

The ends of efficiency eclipse

The means of happiness and health

Performativity reigns in a manic teleology

The wretched of the earth are de-personified

And reduced to nothing but technology

Bellowing out from the chasm of

His churning belly is a quiet voice

Calmly, it makes a claim about

The truth of his utility; but the

Truth can only yet be revealed half honestly:

"Blood and misery stick to the triumphs of society

The rest is ideology." -Horkheimer

The rest is what is found(ing/-in) me

Clinging seemingly hopelessly to hope

I am an appearance

I Am splitting everything in two, like egos or the red sea

Find me please, someone

Anyone lack(ing/-in) the Truth

I am powerless

I am composing the shadow of the very life I protest

Each breath of this life is spent wasting itself

I live a life which has outlived its own ratio

And all it has left to imitate is the very

Death which took place in the past

That past—that debt—is my will and inheritance

(It/Will) is what is found(ing/-in) me

Ecstatically taking pleasure from the pain

Like turning water into wine to stimulate its profit rate

Find me calling for the rest:

A ‘rest’ which is both margin and repose

Both residuals of suffering

And return into nothingness

Traces which are drowned out by floods

The floods which rush in after parting

The sea between what-is and what-ought-to-be

The floods which I nonetheless fantasize

In the very act of producing a totalizing thought

To arrive at totality: everything must be

Broken down, recomposed and accounted for

The smallest units for totality which

We are given by the sacrificial cult:

Break it all down into pennies, infants and letters

These splintered units are the very same

With which bodies have been unified

Unified under a name: the name of a Patriarch

The name is Logos, which was

Projected into the beginning

Logos, whose name is Law

Despite this totalizing impulse, the world will overflow the word

Because the ends are lost, the only vision

Left to alienated consciousness is

The discontinuing of everything

How gentle is the fantasy of beginning again?

But tyranny still rests here, in latency

For what is this but an apocalyptic fantasy?

So, try this failed intention again

In the meantime, the self-same is reproduced

Multitudes broken down to one docile Soul

As in any system, silence is preferable

Multitudes recomposed to conform to Forms

The eternal Forms of blessed anamnesis

The Forms in which I hide from unforeseen consequence

In those Forms, life is emptied of content

Life becomes hollow, and all becomes vanity

All rise and behold his body

Which chains us in the horror of our own

We lack the Forms after our half-honest disavowal

So now Lack has become a Form

We feel nothing on the skin we sacrificed

We feel nothing, except the passage of time

Found(ing/-in) me, hope and despair unequally

I Am splitting everything in two to grasp this wrong reality

Find me, someone, anyone tell me

That it is not (y)our fault. I will lend my voice

To suffering so that it may speak honestly

All the while fearing my obsession with

Justice will destroy my sincerity

Intercourse blindly made history

And history dialecticized itself

It made itself into dialogue

Beautiful Telos folded into brute Causality

From where came this pit? This hollow? This hole?

T'was when the Idea encroached on the soul

The idea of peace: all tranquil, all calm

It-Self waging war on all not embalmed

The Idea is whole; seducing us so

The Idea is death, in wait to unfold

From when did we need? From when did demand?

Between these two modes, a force reprimands

Our clay-addled foot. A shade in pursuit

Of all which gives pause, or lets us take root

Desires its name. It conjures its own

Its seeds shadow all. In each, they are sown