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journal of vulgar discourse | the first of many issues we have

politics is not a bananotes

PNB v1.0

PNB is a very serious person addressing a crowd while wearing a bunny costume. The theoretical speculations and wild-eyed nonsense propounded in this periodical do not reflect ideological unity nor theoretical coherence on the part of the contributors. We disagree and bicker constantly. There’s no “we” of a political position here, just the we of people sharing something—the only we that counts


Politics is not a banana | issue one PNB is set in the families of the eloquent Miss Eves, the slabby Memphis and noted by Akzidenz Grotesk beautiful ‘R’s’ and such. Oh, How we love pretty things.


We could give a fuck about the War or Hillary or Obama. None of this changes $6.50 plus tips, our rotting teeth, or all our combined STDs. We want conflict, we want the heads of those whiny little pundits on all TV stations. We want doctors tied up in the basement. We want erect nipples and just a fair amount of blood. Yeah, and roses too. We started this petite journal to signify the end of an era of polite discourse. We have no pretensions of leading such a charge, we just understand objective conditions. The US anarchist milieu is too mannerly and responsible. One doesn’t have to go very far to read about our “revolution with a smile,” to hear someone tell you that it’s wrong to steal from small businesses or to see so many stupid smiling faces under the banner of “real democracy.” If politicians wish to wear black, let them do so 2


STILL THERE, THE SPRAY-PAINTED FOUR-SQUARE COURT on the street with three different collective houses. All around town we’ve painted AVENGE OAXACA and DECAPITATE CAPITALISM in enormous block letters, stenciled MAKE TOTAL DESTROY with a masked face, scrawled vengeful citations of Malatesta in marker, wheatpasted fliers in sedimentary layers of intensifying radicalism—but every last one of them is sandblasted off or else wears away. Not the crudely-designated court—brazenly, stupidly painted in the middle of the street, its four squares illustrated by a bomb, a bear, a top-hatted

at their funeral. We say “politics is not a banana!” You cannot get your vital potassium intake from politics. A banana is a fuck toy, a weapon, a charming fruit. Politics is the production of death by any other name. Eat death, you shit.

to choose to submit to the crack of our whip: send essays, reviews and pretty things to ief-southeast@riseup.net

We are ready to do everything with bananas and with all fruit. It was proposed to Semiotext(e) to avoid confusion to call their journal “Hatred of Capitalism,” we think of this journal in a similar context. Our words, although cruel and crude, are simply the return of a peculiar language—one shared between the desire and lack that produce our lumpenized conditions within late capitalism. Which is to say, we are not trying to resurrect the corpse of early punk, nor any other cultural movement, rather we are affirming the perverse beauty of our presently occurring self-consciousness as service workers and folks in a situation of precarity. We are giving birth to ourselves. How sexy. Nothing is too beautiful for the unwanted children of capital! -From the dirty-dirty, Liam Sionnach 08

3 banker, and a self-referential rendering of a spray-paint can, it remains to this day, attesting unintelligibly to some raucous birthday party. A part of me wishes we’d painted something politically coherent, something that would instruct and inspire the masses as they pass. We would have done it with lookouts, at four in the morning, not in a giddy crowd at dusk, all the neighbors looking on. I wish for that because I am a fool who has been reduced by base abstractions. I don’t know how to

In this journal a reader may find: 1. an affirmation of our sensespg.25 2. an expression of a human needpg.5 for socialitypg.17 3. an avenue for communication with other atomized individualspg.15 4. design, literature, and sexualitypg.35 for its/our own purposepg.13 5. irreconcilable antagonismspg.7, pg.31 with capitalism and hierarchy

4 celebrate the unique particulars, I’ve come to mistake slogans for reality, critique for resistance, strategic movement-building for the moment-by-moment passing of our lives. Our playing together—our togetherness, our collective, joyous affirmation of our ability to transform the world in accordance with our passionate and, yes, flighty desires, in however small a way—that is a moment worth immortalizing. Our lives, our actual friendships, the jokes we tell, the flirtatious glances we exchange, above all the individual instants of our actual lives—let those be our cause, our banner. The circle A is just a generalization—but one transi-


“The autonomous approach requires that you proactively challenge the status quo and tirelessly battle away until you achieve a stand-alone off-grid environment.” -some architecture book P—s had at the café


by: Biofilo

POLITICS IS NOT A BANANA. You can eat a fucking banana. Try eating the activities associated with the governance of a country or other area, especially the debate or conflict among individuals or parties having or hoping to achieve power1—you’ll end up with stitches, presuming you’re smart enough to give a fake name at the emergency room. I hear hot lead is medicine, but for fucking breakfast already? Ergo, politics is for those who already have more food than they know what to do with. The rest of us—the hungry—need something else. Their food, for example. But HUNGER ISN’T JUST A MATTER OF FOOD. When we have little food between us but have each other, we eat sharing and find it nectar and ambrosia. On the other hand, when the world is divided into 5 tory night, we played four-square, right there. When we sneak into the hot tub and two dozen of us are running around naked in occupied territory, fearless and scandalous, hating on the police with the random strangers who have also showed up to sneak in—imagine that, but with molotovs when the police show up. We go to the hot tub four times a week because it fills a need, because together we have produced a new need, one that can direct us beyond the horizons of capitalist entertainment and isolation. Our books-to-prisoners group is absolutely

victors and vanquished, into present privations and future solutions, perennially deferred, we set our tables with macaroni and cheese but all we eat is bitterness, bile, depression. We hunger—not to switch places with our oppressors or render everyone equally oppressor and oppressed—but for a different way of living. In focusing on parties having or hoping to achieve power, politics is the sham via which the inception of that different life is put off indefinitely. Bananas aren’t just food, either—they’re plants, they have a natural environment outside the produce bins of the supermarket. This is obvious—but you, esteemed reader, don’t actually feel it in your bones, do you? Be honest: how many banana plants have you met for every supermarket banana you’ve eaten? You don’t know shit about bananas. You only see them in the concentration camps, the police lineup, tagged with the stickers that serve as their work uniforms. You eat hot dogs and think you know what it’s like to run with wolves. Bananas are proletarians, like us. They’re slaves at the mercy of the economy, they never get to achieve their full potential, they’re stripped of their communities and culture. They follow the same paths as many migrant workers; they have an easier time at the border, but they don’t get to send money home. The rul-

ing class used unwaged banana labor to decimate Latin America—remember United Fruit!—and now, reduced to a precarious monoculture, they are in danger of being wiped out by the next pandemic. Some lugubrious party communist is reading this right now and shaking his head: “Bananas can’t be proletarian!” He knows they aren’t because if they were, he’d already be hanging in a tree in a yellow suit, talking them through the finer points of dialectical materialism. What’s the line of the general assembly on this? The bananas reply: Don’t talk to us about fucking assembly lines! They look at him and see an aspiring banana distributor, yet another sticker-affixer and Fruit-Uniter. For the communist, revolution means appropriating politics along with factories and banana plantations. He knows every term in the equation, what each entity is and what its uses are. What a bunch of shit! He imagines a collectively-run sewer system, filling up with the shit of millions and millions of communists just like him. The sewers of tomorrow justify any excess today—excesses of brutality, excesses of timidity, above all excesses of moderation. We, on the other hand, don’t want to plan or calculate or be intelligible, nor to reduce the world to what we understand. No calculations, no promises, no deferrals—and no sewers. When one of us eats a banana in freedom, we shit out the seeds of new banana trees, and they sprout. Politics is not a banana. Politics is a mañana—and we need to eat today.

6 necessary, but it only works because we cook brunch for everyone before it. Our Really Really Free Markets are a beautiful point of intersection for underclass survivors from all walks of life, but the social circle that successfully faced down threatened police attacks to maintain them formed playing parlor games at potlucks. Our riots can redirect history, but the smoky nights around the campfire years later, recounting impossible stories and reminiscing, are the blood that flows through the arteries of our resistance. What would be the equivalent of spray-painting four-square courts everywhere in town, of taking ourselves seriously as the protagonist and object of our struggle?


Anatomy of an Autonomous Autonomonomy

1. New Oxford American Dictionary

EVERYTHING FOR EVERYONE, nothing for the zapatistas

City! Town! Suburb! You tormented child. You’ve forgotten how to speak. Adorable little Pinballs, bouncing from bar to work to fuck to coffee. Look! A pretty thing. Look! an ugly thing. Can’t it feel familiar When ever we go dancing?

by: Liam Sionnach


hat a strange phenomenon. The motivating force, a community of marginal political identities, has reached an impasse when the conditions of everyday life in the Global North are arguably much more ripe for social change than they were in ‘99. Where did our fairy tale go? Some say, and have said, we’ve been barking up the wrong tree. True perhaps, we are beginning to smell mere oranges in our search for bananas. Capital, in it’s infinite metamorphosis, has branded and recuperated us once more. So much so that the very notion of ‘We’ causes vertigo. I ask my mirror “Who is your father!? Who is your mother!?” and it answers “Propagandhi’s 2nd LP, the Nirvana shirt you


stole from Aaron.” These are our meaningless answers. They are elaborated by the fifteen minutes of fame some experience after their zines becomes books become a speaking tour. I am writing porn, thinking about how I am such a good little slut; thinking about how I can do horrible things to the good little slut of me. I want to see you sometime in ‘04, but I still have a pending felony and my friends are all idiots and my fifty hours a week gets me nothing more than security wine I steal from work. I ask my idiot friends about their parents and they refuse to answer me. At least their answers are honest. So I give up on this identity and I’m explaining my motivations to a much better riot tourist than my self but she thinks it’s fucked up because she was just in Palestine and she sees herself in South American punk boys. Her stories make me sad, not like a PETA pamphlet, more like the movie Dogville. She’s totally the priest.

of the hiccups and environmental support systems are crashing and as soon as we start to notice our alienation, capitalism sets itself the task of creating virtual communities to slake our thirst. What more could we ask for? A big enough protest! A really fascinating workshop! No, it’s simple and it’s a bit risqué: we need a story that puts us as the protagonists and the whole of human relations as our arena. My co-workers and I met sometime at the end of summer. We’d been doing much but saying little. There was tension over the issues of dignity and money. The bosses were able to express their more essential interests which in turn illuminated ours as well. We tried to understand that old quote about Power conceding nothing without a demand, but it turned out that everything we enjoyed about our job was something we had taken or imposed our selves. It was from that moment that we were able to answer our own demands. When one asks the collaborative-question of “How shall we survive?” One can be-

This is what is meant when theory utters “There is no longer a coherent meta-narrative.” We, the petite parodies of Marx, certainly get our panties in a bunch over such blasphemy. Although we cover it up by saying “I told you so.1” But here we are—the world economy has caught a case 9

Everything for Everyone, nothing for the Zapatistas

come a singularity of a ‘we’ and match the cruelty of everyday life with the cruelty of nature. Which is to say, there is nothing wrong with a species doing what it takes to survive. There is only conflict. We learned that together but we also learned that at every moment history is attempting to subvert and recuperate our need for rupture. When Marx said “Human history is the history of class struggle,” he was being a tad ambitious and a tad Hegelian (which is like saying racist.) For an industrial working class person at the turn of the twentieth century or for a true believer, perhaps. But for most others, Human history is an amazing, meaningless vortex of information, clicks and buzzes. We are not so foolish to hope another proletariat into existence. However, we wish to be able to speak to each other. This requires a number of things: something to speak about, a place to speak, and words to use. The first is a question of context—something dynamic, yet constant. Has capitalism, the economy of the flows of capital, become anything besides capitalism? Have alienating and hierarchical relationships become anything besides alienation and hierarchy? So our context is clear. Where do we speak about it? With what words? I go to an SDS meeting and people call me racist for refusing the need for parade marshals. I go to the anarchist warehouse party and the police show up with dogs and helicopters, but no one wishes to fight. I say “social eschatology;” I say “total liberation;” I say “The social order” You say “anarcho-primitivism;” you say “Feral Visions gathering” You say “Bakuninist.” Our friends are so confused.

“Knee Fax?”


1. Think of the way anarchism rejects all objective theory in search of an affirmation of the revolution of everyday life. The micro battles against internalized hierarchy, the way we deal with sinners. Yes, an analysis of power is really important but no it’s not just about a dissection of all pos-




It goes like this: Our gang has cut our teeth on extortion, petite vandalism and identity theft. We have potlucks where we masturbate to Greek riot porn and make noise together and ferment vegetables. Every cop that comes to our shop leaves with a bit of our DNA. There was this one time when Sean barebacked this guy with AIDS in the bathroom for $400.00 and a ride in his Mercedes and a tasty entrée from the Thai-Italian fusion joint. And the day, a cop or businessman or politician came in and got a posi -quad latte, but Sean came up negative. Tessa tried burning a car but ended up making a baby cry. The activists said it was a mistake but her motivations were valid—even thought they didn’t agree with the tactics, they thought the City needs to understand that people are angry about police killing black people. But they didn’t get it. Tessa wanted to burn the cars so the police would show up and she could kill them and so cars would burn. Tessa sees our boss driving in every car because he always waves to us in his car as if to say “I see you, all the time.” He does this when he leaves, when he arrives and when he passes us on the street. We want to blind him and cut his arms off because he doesn’t use them unless it’s for surveillance. The secret to really beginning is destroying the zapatista, the anarchist, the activist inside of you. We need friendship that is not politically-branded because we need friends that are branding politicians.

In Pisa we ran into graffiti that exclaimed: “[We] live in the world of fantasy and rebellion!” 11

sible identity. Have you ever had an anti-war liberal from a small town express their feeling of “oppression” because they are pro-peace? Can you believe that shit? Likewise, somethings are intrinsically linked to the becoming-powerful of an autonomous social force and the destruction of hierarchy, other things take a certain attention to fractures in order to become linked.

We’re going to go to the protest because we need to meet other gangs and get our selves new shoes and new laptops and maybe an I-phone. We were hoping someone knew how to get free service or we could trade something for an ID or credit card. In Denver, there’s a Niketown and our gang wanted to have all matching pink and lime green shoes because those are so tight and Nike did such a good job at appealing to our generation. When Joseph was younger he only got Christmas gifts from Walmart and his friends were all rich and his parents never let him know he was poor. That’s a fucked up thing to do to children. “Thanks for not telling us about slavery you fucking assholes.” “Thanks for not telling me Velveeta isn’t cheese” His father worked at the Sewage plant. He lied to his friends at school about owning his house because it seemed 12

like a reasonable lie. But his economics teacher knew he was full of shit because rich kids didn’t wear Tasmanian Devil shirts. We’re going to avenge Joseph’s childhood. He talked to it to make sure we weren’t disempowering it by doing so. His childhood wants everyone to work on their shit and it has a list of demands but it also wants some blood. We’re going to find some economists in Denver and slap shit out of them and we’re going to spit on parents who own things and we’re going to be really gentle but wise with the poor ones that lie to their kids. Fuck you non-history. We don’t care about the issues. We’re not even sure what the issues are. If a news person asks us any questions we’re going to smash their camera and try to take their wallet or purse. Raven, who was once an activist, says people are protesting the War and others are protesting the republicans because they want to feel like when they vote it matters. He says it’s like demanding the death penalty for an elderly piece of shit while he survives only on life support. Think of your racist Grandmother or Pinochet or something. What is needed now is bad intentions and a certain honesty between friends.

“The Luxurious Allbum of Laurent Chollet: The Insurrection Situationist” a review atrociously translated from the French [TO BE READ ALOUD]

Again history of young people who, after the war, assimilated the Surrealist revolt and wanted to make incandescent all the cantons of the life, individual and daily, political and social—i.e., and that starts always thus since Dada, by saying SHIT! to the literature, painting, and the usual forms of the language. Lettrism will have its heroes: picturesque like Isidore Isou, pretentious like Maurice Bismuth (says Lemaitre), sympathetically unforeseeable like Gabriel Pommerand. They do not live all as tramps but put into practice all this slogan: “NEVER WORK!” Graffiti on the walls of the Sorbonne with this other slogan, quite as difficult to assert: “ENJOY WITHOUT OBSTACLE!”


Plan B

Guy Debord becomes the thinking head, the federator of what is neither a federation nor International, of what will take the name of “International Situationist,” “S.I.”—in the final analysis, it will be founded only after its autodissolution in 1971. The “situ” made speak about them, and not only in May 1968. They counted painters now known, poets and agitators of high flight, writers like Debord itself, Raoul Vaneigem, the Essenes in Italy, in Germany, in Holland, in England and as far away as Australia. After the autodissolution they are the drifts: Brigandage in Baader, Brigades Red, terrorism, the delinquency, drug… after the “Proletarians of all the countries, cherish you!” the profitable pornography industry. The Company of the spectacle of Debord in book of pocket, just like the Handbook of good manners of Vaneigem, remain excellent breviaries for a youth from now on revolted to good measure… but is that, even, revolted?


1. WE USE THIS TERM AS WE WISH; not as Feuerbach or Marx may have intended. Whether non-human animals can also be a species-being does not concern us. We are intersted in the essentializing points about human creativity. We imagine our voyage to rupture with history as an ex-

Every day I wake up and ask myself what the worst thing is that I could possibly do to punish myself for not overthrowing capitalism. E

very day I wake up and ask myself what the worst thing is that I could possibly do to punish myself for not overthrowing capitalism. Then I do it. I’ve taken PCP and raked

my face with broken glass. I’ve sabotaged love affairs and canceled vacations. Picture me staring into space in front of a humming monitor, the lint in the dry air collecting in my itching nose, or stealing just enough money from the register for cigarettes. I’ve subsisted on those little hard candies that taste like chemical byproducts and break off little pieces of my teeth, wrecked my body with every factory snack you can imagine—a thousand gallons of 15

pression of humans becoming conscious of our capacity. This notion, however problematic, means we don’t simply seek a change of the social order but an intentional change in human relations to existence. To revolt in search of utopia is both a material question as well as existential. Spe-

by: Biofilo oil and ten thousand pounds of sugar must have passed through my system. I don’t exercise, and when I do, I do it on a machine under fluorescent lights. I’ve stayed out all night for weeks, coming in to work every morning with eyes like red holes opening on hell. I live in a shithole with mildew between the bathroom tiles and black mold in the walls. I’ve knocked myself unconscious, broken my hands punching brick, put bullet after bullet in my temples. I know damn sure my kids aren’t going to call me once they’re old enough to leave home. I drink malt liquor, I play miniature golf, I keep the television on ten hours in a row and I know all the names of the actors in the sitcoms and forty years of baseball statistics. Heroin, income tax returns, medical studies, the fucking works. I even vote in the fucking elections. Normally I’m gentle as a lamb, I want everyone to live happily ever after. Only on this point am I absolutely implacable: my dreams are not going to come true, and somebody has to pay. All that I am not and cannot be and must endure—the being alive when I want to be dead and dead when I want to be alive—the defeat, the ignominy, the kitsch. There’s only one person I can get my hands on and get away with it, only one person I feel entitled to inflict all this rage upon, as every agony and indignity has already been inflicted upon him. I can forgive everyone else—isn’t my boss just doing what he has to do to get by? Isn’t everyone else’s violence and bigotry and mediocrity perfectly understandable under the circumstances? Myself, though—I should have overthrown everything, I should have had a revolution, I should have worked harder. In tormenting myself I salvage a shred of dignity: if I deserve to suffer, it means I’m not just some dumb lout. I may not get to be the revolutionary tribunal, the secret police, the firing squads of the insurrection—but I can stand in judgment over myself, interrogate myself, execute myself. Nowadays I don’t call it capitalism anymore. I mean, what else is there? Nobody in my family has called it that since my father was a kid. I don’t call my project revenge, either—it’s just daily life. I don’t call out in the middle of the night, I just get on with it. I always clock in on time. There is only one story in this world—the suffering I condemn myself to for not living in another. It’s a full-time job. 16

cies-being is the movement of experimenting with our creativity— becoming-human 2. “To the extent that war...aims for the annihilation or capitulation of enemy forces, the war machine does not necessarily have war as its object....But more generally, we have seen that the war machine was the


B: our exit strategy from activism and the next expression of an autonomous social force.

by: Liam Sionnach

17 invention of the nomad, because it is in its essence the constitutive element of smooth space: this is its sole and veritable positive object....If war necessarily results, it is because the war machine collides with States and cities, as forces (of striation) opposing its positive object: from then on, the war machine has as its enemy the State, the city, the state and urban phenomenon, and adopts its objective their annihilation....speaking like Derrida, we would say that war is the ‘supplement’ of the war machine� (Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus 417-418)

actemptation of still know, the e the w , ps n, m ow ca kn Border oWe have N e th s, it m a unter-sum e succession of tivism. The co new prisons; th of g in ild bu e security laws, th e dispersion of activity... t evictions, new ns ai ag nsumes the littl to the sam ns ig pa the cam es responding . Their haste co d iv it ct g an pe s, lle on ol co on ti pr of pa ly on occu But on ncy, with no ho dispersi e catastrophe. regime of urge er-increasing th e t ev th ns of he n ai T hi ag . hm it is yt es w th lv rh lf of itse se themse everywhere the stive gency remains Activists mobili here. She goes e activist to ur yw th er of ev s, the fe er be sw to an ft. The ic inventivenes vist wants at ti m ac ag he pr T r . it he world that is le ng ings never gives it or interrupti rywhere she br ilises. But she ob m st vi ti ac of getting out of the machine leads her. Eve e e progress fail, th of ncrete terms th phe. Without co ro in st ta er ca nd the breakdown e hi th to opposition to to be done. How and now. energy of her tand how it is rs re de he s un ld to or w ns table rtain presence to herself the mea establish inhabi ting what gives it strength: a ce to r de or in , e struggle, rget of the desert sm. Without fo to apprehend th ay w A . it n hi We desert activi it d tacent w a technical an ease of movem om n fr A t n. bu io e, at gl tu si an l the al or ideologica not from a mor tical one.� all - From The C


3. Let us take the hypothesis of a ‘minoritarian’ subversive practice that refuses the Leninist model. In a libertarian perspective one either abandons all insurrectional discourse (in favour of a declaredly solitary revolt),


e intend to

contain within our recomposed and constituted rebel communities the capacity and power to attack. We seek to manifest our selves as the species for-its-self,

the speciesbeing1. Furthermore, we seek the blurring of lines between our experiments at non-hierarchical social relationships and our material

force as a nomadic war-machine2. The objective of any expression or gesture of revolt must be to produce social conflict and strengthen our worlds. The Activist who responds to the contradictions of capitalism with morality or ethics either misunderstands this or does not seek revolt. The current methods for organizing the transformation of a protest into social conflict invite such activists into the conversation. On the contrary, we seek an avenue for communication that has a foundation in something more than perceived political ties. Likewise, we wish for a network of communication [to produce knowledge] that maintains itself for the next attack To answer these questions, insurrectional anarchists have proposed the structure and reproduction of small groups (3-7) making attacks on objects of their misery3. This argument has best been put into practice in the US by groups of ecological and animal liberationists. However these groups are very diffuse and the nature of their cellular structure and somewhat misanthropic perspectives removes them from the arena of human social relationships. Additionally, most who espouse the theory of insurrectional anarchists in the US refuse the protest


or sooner or later it becomes necessary to face the problem of the social implications of one’s ideas and practices. If we don’t want to resolve the question in the ambit of linguistic miracles (for example by saying that

as a site of attack and also end up replacing any question of strategy with one of morality: a choice that ultimately reproduces the wrong power. What Would Peter Young Do? What Would David Gilbert Do? The point is not to produce a new order and expand its influence but to become attentive to the rifts and also the dirt roads between the existing multiplicity of worlds—to act in the only way social species can act and to be intentional and thoughtful about how we can be such a species-being. There is a difference between abstract thought and abstractions. We recognize the social nature of revolt just as we recognize the affects of our rioting. There is nothing in the world of capital that compares to the feelings of comradery and power in the moments when it is only possible to speak of I-as-we—something that is felt precisely when one is linked to five thousand others destroying everything that prevents us from inhabiting the world. We must remain social and reproduce gestures and actions that can affirm that. The model we are most experienced with in the US is the Black Bloc, the process of which looks like this: An affinity group or cluster of affinity groups confirm their interest in producing social conflict at a protest. They chose a date, a few possible targets and have a proposal for a march route. They then produce the most intoxicating rhetoric they can muster as a “call for action” and within the time between then and the protest, hope for the best. Before the day of the protest there is a secret “vouched-for” meeting where the questions of “how” are sussed out. Usually however, no one besides the organizing group has made it their task to provide resources and people can be expected to be prepared only with a few reinforced banners and perhaps some flags—somehow “and anything else one may need to show their resistance to capitalism” does not translate well to weapons in English. Black Blocs have failed on numerous occasions to produce quality attacks that transform the demonstration into a riot, and moreover, their exclusive nature often provokes a fetishism and thus a parody of autonomous force by those excluded from the knowledge and wisdom of its form. This is less a failure on the part of the form and more on our abilities to share knowledge and be self-critical.

There is nothing in the world of capital that compares to the feelings of comradery and power in the moments when it is only possible to speak of I-as-we


the theses we support are already in the heads of the exploited, or that one’s rebellion is already part of a wider condition) one fact remains: we are isolated, which is not the same as saying we are few...Anyone who

A critical engagement with the Black Bloc form does however, prove there is something that provokes its continual reproduction more so than mere identity fetishism. There have been times when an autonomous material force, expressing its self through a Black Bloc, has been powerful and intriguing enough to be appropriated by others outside of its political sphere. Take the case of students in upstate New York utilizing the tactic to get their friends and coeds to attack police on Halloween. Likewise, when the Cincinnati riots occurred a few months after small-scale trashing against the Trans Atlantic Business Dialogue, it was no small coincidence that the rioters, who observed anarchists marching against police brutality, were wearing similar colors and masks. The Black Bloc technique, severed from its political implications, has a few simple qualities: it is a way to organize the passage from protest to riot; it is way of creating anonymity so one can riot or do an action with less fear of later consequences and it is an expression of power. In addition, the organization of a Black Bloc provides a framework to elaborate and experiment with. This is key. Without such a structure, the few victories would likely be nothing more the relationship of praying—hope turned into reality. With our self-organization of attack, we become conscious of our agency; of our becoming-war machine—will turned into power.


is incapable of imagining a community of unique individuals has nothing to put in the place of political mediation. On the contrary, the idea of free experimentation in a coming together of like-minded people, with afďŹ nity

.1. Our goals will always include the production or amplification of social conflict We wish to get organized with a certain attention to detail, contested space and vulnerabilities of capital within our own lives and within the other worlds we can traverse.

2. Our objectives, techniques and organizational forms should produce power We wish to get organized in such a way that intentionally de-hierarchicalizes space and affirms the rituals, customs and gestures we make together 3. We say: “We need this, do you?” We wave to others from the tops of overturned police cars. 4. 100 to 200 = 1000; this is capacity for a reasonable amount of property damage. With 1000 we can do most things we wish to do in a city. 100-200 solid, self-organized and materially prepared folks can become 1000 far better than 25 and can provide more resources. 5. What else can we do? How can we take what we need? Where can we attack? 22

as the basis for new relations, makes complete social upheaval possible. (Anonymous, At Daggers Drawn

We can strike anywhere, but it might be best to test out a few things first. We will attempt, and others interested shall attempt to experiment with how we can get organized in an interesting way with one – two hundred people. More interesting questions will emerge. Shall we continue to wear all black? What or who might we attack? Where are the real flows of capital? How could we really interrupt them? Where are the most vulnerable sites of resources for us to expropriate? Are there other meetings of the most wealthy on earth that aren’t surrounded by armies of riot police?

We would submit that a ‘host’ group chooses an objective(s) and then has face to face communication with those they trust about the idea to gage interest. This will likely have for experimentation: to be done by touring different regions. A more intimate relationship between groups can flourish and a more healthy understanding of needs and differences between groups can become illuminated. The host group will create some mode of communication between themselves and the other trusted groups in order to receive affirmations of interest. The trusted groups, who may not know all of each other, are networked through a series of vouching; facilitated in part by the ‘host’ group and can then begin to find secure modes for their own inter-communication about “how” the objective(s) is achieved. With so much attention to detail and intention, our imaginations are free to experiment with conditions. We can ask questions of our resources, our own intelligence gathering—perhaps, there will be a place where many wealthy people’s cars are kept? Perhaps there can be a way for us to desta-

A lil proposal

bilize communication networks of the security forces? Once the host group receives the affirmation for capacity they communicate with the trusted groups who can then choose to make the action public or build their own post-capacity with other trusted people or other modes of communicating to people who may wish to rebel in a similar style. In the case of the summit protest, we can assume this. Our structure is then something that can appropriate that desire or be appropriated as well. If we provide hundreds of rockhammers to make projectiles out of concrete, then our one hundred or so can be of use to a thousand more people who wish to riot. Likewise, if we have access to a sound system that can be lost then we have the ability to emerge a street party. Our structure, by its nature, becomes both


4. The banner exclaimed: “Plan B: Burn Berlin” Although Rostock expressed what we were feeling more clearly

robust and diffuse. We have the freedom of imagination to call it off if we must and also the power and capacity to do more tomorrow if we wish. It is through a intimate knowledge of our power that we can refuse to simply “do something” and instead do what will benefit us.

After this model is put into a practice on a number of occasions, it will become necessary that it transitions from the arena of a protest to other contested sites. It is our hypothesis this will be required not because of mere predictability—the war in Iraq could be predicted—but rather in the interest of expanding the temporal expressions of our worlds. Without this intent we will return to the problem of the Black Bloc, a specific tactic for anarchists. Plan B is merely a notion currently but it will best benefit us if we are intentional in expanding its knowledge and creating situations where it can be appropriated and where even we can be appropriated by other expressions of autonomous social force. Plan B and Black Blocs are not simply tools in the toolbox of anarchists but rather expressions of a certain attention to sociality and force—it is no coincidence that we get organized comparably to the anarchists of Spain: based on our needs and affinities. We intend to elaborate this tradition and likewise use our forms of organization to expropriate everything and destroy anything that prevents us from utopia.

Plan B will not simply be the materialization of Black Blocs again or of their qualities outside the protest arena, but an attempt to produce a more rhizomatic form for our autonomous social force—one that can be easily appropriated by others but also one that, when appropriated, will benefit us too. Which is to say, we become more powerful when our nuclei are elaborated by others’ experiments and when there can be communication between worlds. We intend to produce and share knowledge through our expressions of force. Recognizing what is interesting and to our advantage about the technique, we seek not merely another option for activists to put into their toolbox, but an expression that dissolves the impasse of activism. Plan B is an option for those who wish to rebel, produce social conflict and become more powerful. The feedback-loops that can manifest this relationship with power and rebellion are to Germany4 was not the beginning and Switzerland5 be produced and are currently impossible. This will not be the end. becoming-powerful is a situation that requires our exit from political and ethical techniques for social movement. Like Santa Claus or Jesus, they cease to exist when we cease to believe. We should be happy to oblige.


5. The right-wing shits did not expect such a merciless attack, no?


Of the victorious darkness, as he fell; Like the last glare of day’s red agony, Which, from a rent among the fiery clouds, Burns far along the tempest-wrinkled deep. -Percy Bysshe Shelley




By Idris Intifada


usic gives a far-reaching impetus to life and ways of living. Anyone who has woke from tranquil dreams, ready to take on the nightmare of daily life in the clutches of capitalism, yet still goes into combat fired up like an intravenous energy drink tube is lodged in their arm, can attest to the truth of the previous sentence. Music can give one the strength to not only endure, but also willfully oppose an existence dominated by capital. With this understood, it becomes apparent why so many are radicalized through musical subcultures like punk and hip-hop. Capital searches and usually finds a way to neutralize and recuperate any group or tactic that poses a threat to its control. Sub-cultures are not exempt. Once an initial threat is quelled, it is often easily incorporated into the present order. Hip-hop is like today’s bureaucratic union and the rap song is like the union’s innocuous picket-line strike tactic, all fit snuggly into capital’s plan. Think, capitalism = penis, punk = condom. The

Prometo Unwound 1. The metaphor slightly breaks down with unions and propaganda by deed. Even if conditions aren’t calling for propaganda by deed, it is nevertheless always beautiful and should go down. Unions, on the other hand, are never effective revolutionary vehicles and disgusting.

capitalist cock, when erect, changes both its shape and the condom’s until they are securely in place together. Punk becomes just another prophylactic on the market, protecting capitalism from beautiful, life-threatening STDs and pregnant revolution. Musical genres, like tactics, have the potential to again become a threat, similar to how propaganda by deed is effective only when specific conditions arise1. But, when faced with the nightmare of capital each morning, it’s far too trying to patiently wait for a genre to regain its lost fervor. Just as capitalism searches for methods to recuperate, we must search for music that gives us vigor for our daily attack. Supposed radicals have been known to go on said search and typically make ill-use of their findings. AND it goes a little something like this: with “radicals” setting their voyeuristic gaze upon some genre, imposing upon it their muddled ideology, neglecting the virtuosity within the musical tradition and finally debuting something pitiful like an anarcho-ragtime outfit. It is likely to be far more rewarding to look into music with a tradition of Live Nigga Shit like, what is today called, classical music. Henri Lefebvre in his Situationist phase, recounts in Introduction to Modernity: Twelve Preludes how classical music was the avant-

“Hip-hop is like today’s bureaucratic union and the rap song is like the union’s innocuous picket-line strike tactic”

26 2. Nono married Schoenberg’s daughter, Nuria. Obsessed fan or descendant? You make the call.

3. ”DARMSTADT SCHOOL” was a term coined by Nono describing his peers who were committed to serial music. Other notable composers belonging to the school were Boulez and Stockhausen.

garde in the 18th and 19th century, forcefully shaping society during the tumultuous period. Lefebvre cites Beethoven as one of his favorite composers due to the unity between the musician’s life outlook and music. Maybe not as Live as a dusted Old Dirty Bastard rhyming on the once seedy streets of fortydeuce but Beethoven, with his constant disdain for authority, when mistreated would wild out like Bellevue. Known for smashing things against walls along with a host of other colorful antics, the archduke finally decreed that court rules of conduct would no longer apply to the composer. Unlike his submissive teacher Haydn, Beethoven’s immense pride as a musician moved him to never view himself as a servant and he always despised the aristocracy. All this had a profound influence on his timeless music, and without his ego and politics, Beethoven’s music would have had a different character. Examples of oppositional currents in the classical tradition extend into the 20th century

from John Cage’s anarchist beliefs to the riots incited by Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. Whether the riot was jumpstarted by the edgy performance or the political climate is of no concern to the author. A riot is a riot is great! On the other hand, there is no doubt that the anti-fascist message in the Italian composer Luigi Nono’s Intolleranza performed in Venice in 1961 did, in fact, fuel a riot. Beautiful. Born in Venice in 1924, musically, Luigi Nono was a descendant of Schoenberg2 and Webern. His first piece, Variazioni canoniche was based on the dodecaphony of Schoenberg’s Op 41 and critics argued that Nono’s praised Il canto sospeso was the best example of Webern’s influence on music. Yet, Nono’s was no mere imitator and his dedication to musical innovation and anti-capitalism would move him worlds away from the composers of the Second Viennese School. His music was often inspired by themes like class struggle, revolution, anti-fascism, and even the poetry of Lorca: basically he was into some Live Nigga Shit. Often he would incorporate text into composition. For instance, the letters of political prisoners during fascist regimes are interweaved into the music of Il canto sospeso until the music becomes “the expression of the words.” It was not just his anti-capitalist themes and his experimentation with tape, electronics and music within space, but precisely how Nono aimed to make his music the expression of particular words, is what made him a notable composer. Following Brecht, Nono sought to destroy the relationship between spectator and the musical spectacle. He shunned traditional opera performances and instead created “azione scenica”. These were theatrical performances with orchestra, taped sounds and visuals, used to


4. Quote found in “FOR Debord.




ART” by Guy

produce a “concrete situation” to drive home the message in the music. Eventually, Nono moved his music into the factories and universities in attempts to counter the spectacle created by concert halls, on some “get out the theatre and into the streets” shit. . After being one of the leading figures of the Darmstadt school3 in the ’50s, and then producing azione scenica ’60s and ’70, Nono began to change his approach to composition. He became convinced that his last azione scenica entitled Al gran sole carico d’amore, premiered in the mid-’70s, was a “monster of resources” and severely limited as a technique. Departing from Brecht’s notion of stage and theatre, Nono then set out to switch the style up and create “a drama in music”. PrometeoTragedia del’ascolto (Prometheus – Tragedy for listening), the grand anti-opera first performed in Venice (inside a huge boat) in 1984, was the outcome of the musica per dramatica concept and the masterwork of his late period. Before reviewing Prometeo, I’d like to touch on some of the difficulties that arise when reviewing art, besides the usual pitfalls of parasitism and misunderstanding that critics dive into. The first difficulty stems from classical music (and most art) being forcefully severed from the excluded by the ruling class. Although, many artists and listeners of classical music are fellow

proles, specialization and privileged knowledge has separated this part of culture (and even markedly proletariat arts) from those who are forced to toil, steal, or do both. Being detached from tradition, the proletariat critic is often unaware of the composer’s objectives and the devices used to reach the objectives. Guy Debord raised another difficulty with the claim: “art criticism is a second degree spectacle4.”


5. Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations, #109

6. Kjell Johannessen’s “Art, Philosophy and Intransitive Understanding”

For Debord, the critic is a specialized spectator, who recreates a second spectacle through his/her specialized interpretation. The reviewer, in this case, furthers the spectacle/spectator relationship and thus helps maintain the capitalist order. With all this stacked up, the reader should keep in mind: it’s hard out there for a critic. The previous difficulties can be met by Kjell Johannessen’s vision of an art critic inspired by his study of Wittgenstein’s work on art and philosophy. Following Wittgenstein’s advice that “problems (in philosophy of language) are solved not by giving new information but by arranging what we have always known5”, Johannessen argues that the critic using the same descriptive reasons found in philosophy like examples, metaphors and gestures is to persuade us to experience art without adding new information. In other words, the critics task is to “organize the work of art perceptually –in general: help us experience the work of art in more rewarding ways6”. A reviewer should realize that paraphrasing art is impossible, because the content is caught up in the expression of art, understanding can only be sought through new ways of experiencing. When approaching recuperated art, the critic is to create a new way to experience the work that “reradicalizes previous critical conclusions (within the work) that have been petrified into respectable truths and thus

transformed into lies7.” In regards to art not assumed spectacular, the reviewer persuades us to experience the work of art as a criticism of the totality of capitalism. Thus, following Johannessen, the critic can avoid becoming a second-hand spectator and distant artistic traditions can be used against capital. That is, if the critic is sufficiently skilled. It’s still hard out there for a critic. Back to Prometeo. Although, as mentioned earlier, Nono broke with the elaborate theatrical performances influenced by Brecht, he continued to make music that resisted passive listening. For roughly two hours, Prometeo’s listener is placed in an invisible musical tragedy inspired by texts assembled by the autonomous marxist turned sell-out-mayor of Venice, Massimo Cacciari. The vocalists hauntingly sing the libretto comprised of poetry from Rilke and Hölderlin, Aeschylus’s Prometheus and Walter Benjamin’s “On the Concept of History”. Not only is Prometeo quite long for our MTV bred attention spans but also it’s packed with dissonant electronic sounds, eerie voices that swirl around you until the orchestra finally hits you with a one/ two like Zab Judah. Listening can be trying, painful, and maybe even dangerous….maybe. When bumping Prometeo at my rest, I’m reminded of the first time I heard Company Flow and how I felt like I’d become El-P’s lyrics shoved into a small box made of metal bars being beaten with frying pans. At other


8. Guy Debord’s Society of the Spectacle

times, the vocals are soothing and you float with them as if riding on a John Coltrane solo, but just like when Trane goes free, you’ll get knocked out of the sky like a hijacker, by a screeching voice or tape. None of this sounds all that pleasant. So then why listen to it? Prometeo is not just the avant-garde negation of style, but it is the forceful negation of the existing order. It’s an audible play about a history marked with violent ruptures in capitalism otherwise known as class struggle. It’s the sounds of Prometheus stealing fire from Jupiter but preferring to immolate the god rather than give the stolen fire to humanity. Nono takes the listener through Benjamin’s materialist history with all it epochs exploding out of the homogenous course of time. Prometeo is the jarring noise of fierce beauty. I believe the more appropriate question would be: why would you not want to listen to it? Again, music shapes the way we relate to the world. Hence, it’s in our best interest to fully take in music that rattles us into creating violent and subversive relations with the world. So tomorrow, when you wake and put on a tune to go with your cigarette and coffee, listen deep when you begin to feel the shit quickly sliding through your intestines. Do you feel an overwhelming force to move your bowels in Tupperware? Once your feces is sealed tight in the laboratory-made plastic, is there a drive to scurry into the mansions of the bourgeoisie and smear the espresso/ tobacco flavored slimy excrement in their faces? If not, you need to find a better record. Some Nono joints might do the trick.


We double-dog-dare you to take notes and discuss.

Think about it, you could use these last pages. Wouldn’t it be fun? You and your friends; all producing self-knowledge. Better than coke and hegel. Trust us.

This is from the little book: Bukaka Spat Here by: Alexander Brener and Barbara Schurz. Donna J. Haraway speaks so kindly: “They wrote about the wettest cunt in the world, but what’s more important: it is a revolutionary black cyber-cunt!” Bukaka, “the most insane and uncompromising rebel of the whole world; a muscular black women with a huge white-dildo, who is everywhere, has just made contact with a blossoming Carlotto. This is their love story.




week ago I found a new lover. His name was Karl M. but I called him Carlotto.

He was Brazilian, from an escaped Nazi family. His grandparents were friends with Adolf and Eva. But Carlotto was a naturally born anti-fascist. When I looked at his body I always imagined the dead body of Rosa Luxumberg dragged from a dirty freezing canal in Berlin in March 1919. Carlotto had also got such a blue wounded body covered with boils and scars because he was beaten by cops at anti-capitalist demonstrations in Seattle, Washington, Prague, Davos, Nice, Gothenburg...Mass media cretins always picture the ruling class are peaceful and the protesters are violent. Fuck it! Correspondents should see my Carlotto’s body! Fuck! We spent this whole week in a broken bed. Carlotto was incredible, unbelievable!I totally forgot my lovely dildo. What is a piece of plastic in comparison with a real male organ? nothing! nothing! We fucked in a squat. O my God! We also taught each other some love games. My favorite was spitting in Carlotto’s mouth and after Carlotto spat in my cunt. Anyanya! We both nearly fainted. I was completely covered with foam,


like Aphrodite. Our synchronic orgasm was like a whale’s fountain. Carlotto screamed like a hurt deer. I wrote a poem about out sweet time: revolutionary fights, Tender, tender, tender nights. Hurled stones, Broken bones, Human rights and hidden sites. Anyanya! You are me and I am you. I fuck you, you fuck me too. Bleeding hearts, Martial arts... oh Karl Marx, what can I do? Anyanya

He lay on his stomach on the filthy asphalt. Eye open and he smiled like a child. His blue Levi’s jeans were rotten And his blood at the bottom Fuck Emporer Haille Selassie! Looked like a red flag! But his persuasion was deeply black. He was cowardly murdered by a police gun. After 3 bullets in his head he could not run. O my dead Carlotto, you were a strong man! But now you can not make love again. And never again you will protest, dance, spit, Attend meetings, brush your teeth and hit. Or cook breakfast, play cards, collect stamps, Or simply switch on or switch off lamps. But my question is: where is your soul? To get an answer is my desired goal. And I guess that your soul is in the Internet... O Your soul itself is a global net! Now people of freedom will unite Under your name and fight! And Fight! Carlotto, you died like a butchered cat in the street, So that a gang of wealthy, legal criminals is fit To shake hands, Slap eachother’s backs and drink Italian wine And tell eachother “How are you?” “Fine...” O my Carlotto, fuck them all! Fuck every bank, every shopping mall! Smash churches, prison and unjust courts... And finally abolish capitalism! Love live mayhem, freedom and anarchism!

This wonderful week ended very fast. My Carlotto left for Genoa to join the protest against the G8 summit. I did not go there because I decided to act according to my new complex strategy. Hey! At that moment I planned to trash cars in Piccadilly...And so we parted forever...Carlotto was assassinated by fascist carabinieri in fucking Italy on his way back to Britain... Ooooooh His dick was like strawberries in vanilla yogourt. When I kept it in my mouth I was afraid that it was going to melt like ice cream. But instead is became hard and smooth. I still feel the taste of his dick in my mouth... All I know about Carlotto’s death is the following. (Most of it I saw in my dreams. But I know that is is the only truth. All what was said about Carlotto in the mainstream newspapers and on TV is reactionary gossip.) Ooooh, my dead Karl M., I believe that your blood mingled with the blood of the homeless, with the Listen: blood of those forced to beg and starve everyday,


with the blood of the broken, poisoned, beaten workers, men, women and children, with the blood of others who died in the hands of pigs and snipers... Your blood infused them all with a fierce rage of the forgotten, the invisible, the voiceless, the expendable victims of money-crazy world gone mad and this blood red rage, rose from the sewers, and poured out of the mouths of screeching rats and spilled into the streets of Genoa, into places, boardrooms, reception halls, limousines and stained them all red, a carpet of blood it overflowed into rivers and oceans touched continents far away and crept onto beaches at night staining them red it oozed its way onto signed agreements, memos and documents that seal our fate, but which we never see and stained them red, to remind everyone of the rage of those like Karl M., who died so others can profit to remind them that this blood red rage has just begun... Ho-ho-ho! Ah, fucking imperial language... I think my readers may already realized that I’m not a native English speaker. Not at all... Actually I started to learn English when I was sitting in a notorious prison in Nebraska. One guard who raped me there during a period of two years taught me this fucking language at his fuck-sessions. Every night he came to my cell, beat me on the head, on the ass and penetrated me with his fists. He was a fucking impotent, like the majority of the white male jerks. But nonetheless he wanted to have sexual pleasure, Jesus...When he put his fist into my cunt he whispered: “Big dick, come quick!” That were the first English words I learned... Then I started to read commix about Batman, Spiderman and so on from the prison’s library. Later I became a

fan of William Burroughs and Kathy Acker... Still English remained an artificial alienated language for me...But I don’t believe in any native language... All languages are just bark of power-dogs, oppressors and exterminators... All literature is just glue which sticks together weak intellectuals and muscular sheriffs... I give a shit about literature critics, in whose hands this book might fall and who will tell that my writing is the anti-aesthetic or non-professional or simply sick...I think that the literature of the future will be just some fucking diaries written with blood...And again: Fuck imperial English!


Kyrelle & Conway explore cyber-feminisms A SHORT PORNOGRAPHIC FICTION BY LIAM SIONNACH


e was asleep. Kyrelle was awake and suffering— or was it indulging?—in the presence of Conway’s vulnerable boy-body. Kyrelle thought himself narcissistic when he fucked this boy. Conway’s slim hips mirrored his own; both had similar hair styles and a keen sense of aesthetics. They wore the same whores-clothes, and often were mistaken for one another at gatherings and conferences. “Opposites never are that attractive anyway,” Kyrelle murmured to himself. He bit his lower lip, and staring down Conway, Kyrelle pierced him through his dreams. If Conway had been able to abandon images of subservience and cakes, he would have no doubt been on his knees. However despite Kyrelle’s severe composure, Conway still lay there on his side—mouth half open, hair strewn across his face. Kyrelle moved closer and step down to press himself against Conway’s ass. He ran one finger across Conway’s chest, admiring the flatness of it. He gripped his own tits, knowing their love affair of a long twenty-three years would soon come to pass. “I’m just too much of a fag,” he told them, “and everyone knows


we want a fair amount of blood

fags and dykes just don’t mix.” But in the wee hours of tonight—or was it early morning now?—Kyrelle’s imagination would be less occupied with the relations of gender and Mr. Califia’s theories and moreso with shoving his cock in Conway’s ass or throat or anything tight and wet. Kyrelle traced his fingers along the pointy wings of Conway’s hipbones and over his cock. He lightly cupped Conway’s balls and pushed himself rhythmically against Conway’s sleepily little ass. “Wake up slut,” he whispered. Ahh, but to no avail. Conway did, however, relinquish a small grunt. It reminded Kyrelle of how Conway sounds when he’s fucking himself and thinks no one is listening. “Fucking sleeping beauty,” he thought. Standing once more, Kyrelle began to believe all of his impassioned toil may be in vain. Sleepdeprived and beginning to get groggy, he attempted to remember what had led to all of this—beyond all the horrible things he wished to do to one of the people he loved, there was earlier tonight when Conway had asserted his need to sleep—that little bitch. What needs do slaves have besides submission? And what good would sleep be without Kyrelle perfect-form linked to him? Kyrelle began to envy the comforters. He knew that cocksucker was egging him on, trying to get punished. The desire that linked them became clear. He would be tickled to assist. He looked down at Conway’s innocent drooling face. He felt like a criminal, the way he scouted out the motions of Conway’s breathing— waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Kyrelle was so hard—soaked panties is an understatement. He fastened the buckles to his cock and rubbed its base against his clit—his little-dick. He held it, like so many time before, like a weapon but a weapon you use to hunt, a weapon you misuse as a shovel or as a back-

scratcher. He held it like a magic wand—and it was all of these things. He wanted the passage from dreams to reality to be abrupt, traumatizing if possible. Closing his eyes to dream himself, he bit his lip once more and stroked his cock. Seeing himself as only god can, Kyrelle watched himself fuck his hand over Conway’s limp body. He tensed, pulsed his veins and made violent intercourse with his cock and Conway’s face. Conway was instantly conscious and confused. Kyrelle then seized a clump of hair with one hand and slapped Conway’s pretty little face with another. It wasn’t necessarily about authority but it was that too. Moreover it was about recognition, as it always is. Still grasping Conway’s hair Kyrelle positioned himself at Conway’s drooping fuck-hole—anything with an “O” just makes you want to fuck it. “Listen bitch, now that I have your attention, quit sniveling. I mean quit pretending you are more than a cock-sucking faggot begging to be shaken from sleep at the mere possibility of smelling a thick cock. Now open up.” Conway’s subtle procrastination was met quickly with another round of slaps, this time qualified with the distinct sting of Kyrelle’s knuckles. Kyrelle squeezed Conway’s face, opening him like you do a snake when you extract poison. Unable to extract anything besides an incoherent gurgle, he proceeded to insert his little sex-weapon into Conway’s mouth.


and the prettiest of things

“Fine, snivel if it will make you feel slut-faggot face while you eat out my asshole?” better, you fucking whore, but keep your fuck- Talking dirty is also a bit awkward for Kyrelle. ing mouth open. I want to fuck the hope out of Conway couldn’t wait to feel Kyrelle’s you.” sweaty ass pressed against his lips. He almost creamed him self imagining it... Kyrelle jacking Conway gulped down Kyrelle’s im- off while he tongued Kyrelle’s elegant brown-diamense cock. He loved being treated like trash, mond. Swoon. like a pretty little faggot-boy; like anything dirty. The moment Kyrelle grabbed his hair and aimed Kyrelle pushed himself onto Conway’s his thickness at Conway, he had lost his imagina- face, not completely covering him because he tion to the gutter. He wished to be a young Asian wanted to watch Conway squirm as he was suffogirl in a Bukakke film; showered in the cum of cated between Kyrelle’s ass cheeks. Conway slipped oh-so-many pretty cocks. his tongue up and down Kyrelle’s crack, his littleKyrelle began to tear into Conway’s dick, his taint and his asshole. He licked the brown throat, fucking his face into submission, taking puckering lips. He wanted to savor every piece of what they both wanted. Kyrelle’s dirty body he was allowed to taste. Closing Conway pulled away suddenly, cover- his eyes, he tongued a map of the different tastes. ing his mouth and making a disgusting gagging From sweat-to-precum-to-pussy juice-to-pubic noise. Holding down the puke was important to hair-to-around the asshole-to-the bitter sweetConway—he knew how to deepthroat but he loved ness of inside it. He tongued as deep as he could being fucked to the point where it he actually had while Kyrelle pressed against him. to worry about puking. Something about losing Kyrelle stroked his cock and nudged it control and fear of death maybe... against his smaller one. Pressing against Conway’s Looking up, he noticed some of his face, Kyrelle made his little slutty-faggot increasmucus was still hanging from Kyrelle’s cock. He ingly a mess of sweat, spit and pre-come. Soon also saw Kyrelle’s severe stature. The instant they Kyrelle began fucking Conway again, this time made eye-contact Kyrelle slapped him across with his ass—pressing open his ass over the boy’s the face with his wet power, leaving a slimy mark tongue and literally fucking Conway’s face with his on Conway’s cheek. The wet sting of a cock is asshole. matched only by Mango-Chile Popsicles. Conway could only hope it would get “You fucking bitch, did I tell you stop? worse. While his mouth was constantly and forceDid I tell you to pull away if you felt like you fully enveloped in Kyrelle’s sticky asshole, he were going to be sick?!” Kyrelle has trouble even imagined only new and more pornographic ways saying “puke.” “You stupid cock-hungry faggot. to be totally used. He wanted to be a receptacle of You wanna feel sick? Lick my dirty ass, how anything Kyrelle gave him. He wanted to be a vessel about that? How about I cum in you pretty little of fuck.



Becoming-mess, Becoming-animal-heat, a sweaty Kyrelle thrust with a rhythm of velocity and robust fuck. He lost the gender of before. He cared not if Conway’s tongue continued to make its way into his ass or the ass of another place. With every push he got closer to orgasm—to coming all over his little-bitch’s delectable pout. He didn’t care about anything—about if he would quit smoking, about the critique of SM he’d read, about the war, about the impending doom of everything—he just wanted to cum. He left the world of rationality. Fantasies of the worst and best possible things sped across his mind like galloping fucking unicorns. He joined Conway in the shitty, terrible, beautiful gutter of human history. Blood and piss and fucking knives and twenty Kyrelles fucked the only hope of a better world out of Conway’s bidding whore-puppy face. He made love to Conway’s vagrant desire for fuck and tensing, muscles-pulsing, grunting, releasing streams of hot, semi-soft liquid—painting Conway in the best of his worst. Conway purred with pleasure as he was sprayed. He rubbed his own cock to orgasm and marveled in the flows of desire drenching his choppy hair and open lips. He was the nun becoming-whore he wished to be. He felt it all, pinpointing the slow motion effect of sex washing away his fears. Each drop was cherished as he knew Kyrelle’s becoming-cat was only possible at these moments. Pool of cum on the neck, check! Pool of cum in the clavicle, check! Kyrelle collapsed backward and Conway pounced atop of him. Conway rubbed their fuck all over Kyrelle, kissing his neck and cheeks and ears. They smoked and took pictures of each other and then shared the details of their imaginations. Kyrelle lapped at Conway’s ass-covered face and pushed his nose like a button. Soon, they were reminiscing about past loves and the way Georges Bataille’s “The Story of the Eye,” had influenced their adolescence. They decided not to sleep and instead to drink coffee and whiskey, because work would soon be upon them and teaching high-schoolers and selling culture is more fun that way. They discussed the importance of a material expression of sex to them, although recognizing the problematic of teleological historical notions too. On another occasion, they thought, perhaps we should attempt a reversal of such desire:

�� �

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“Could we participate in becoming-orgasm without the explicity and pressure of orgasm?” inquired Kyrelle.

��� � � �� � �� �� � � �� �

“But what is the point of weapons if we cannot use them to kill?” Conway contradicted.

Both fascinated themselves with these questions, and posed them to others with irresponsible timing throughout the liquid and dreamy day.

�� �� � ��

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This publication is in part made possible by The Institute for Experimental Freedom, crime and viewers like you—you fucking spectator

� ��

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Profile for Liam Sionnach

Politics is Not a Banana | Number One  

The Journal of Vulgar Discourse PNB An exploration in experimental literature and critical theory. We are very serious people wearing bunny...

Politics is Not a Banana | Number One  

The Journal of Vulgar Discourse PNB An exploration in experimental literature and critical theory. We are very serious people wearing bunny...