Ideas are bullshit

I–lie-dia (dear): a Love Let-her to Justin Clemens punctuated from the other side of the table of sexuation. Purely logical, Helen, your absence in your presence is worth every-thing.

The state’s the bully-boy for the drug cartels

(Anything that is, is the bully-boy said the addict in my cartel. Onto Logie)

bovaxxing you up on experimental treatments

(They tues-you on Tuesdays in your tutu)

& a cascade of paragovernmental surveillance apps

(Jeremy Bentham has his eyes in his pocket, utile)

just so you can hit the nags and booze

(I, woman, lay-bored the sausage sizzle stand all weekend)

by flashing your phone at the gate

(QR code-did Freud initiate this pathway in the Project?)

while the billionaires race to space

(Hannah Arendt died with Judgement on her typewriter)

with the withered trace of a face

(Prosopon: Eyes without a Face: Give Voice to an Idea, Billy-eidolon)

from some creaky-arsed cold-war claptrap

(Fabricate the emperor’s new clothes, awake from the pajamas of repetition-JAM)

when shows were still on weekly in segments

(just a slice of the whole)

built around untrammelled product placement

(l’on l’a, l’on l’a de l’air, l’on l’aire, de l’on l’a)

& experimental psychosocial whining

(Slipknot? Pas de Tout)

& civilisation was just getting into

(Barbarians and their sauerkraut!)

pumping its newborns with microplastics


& thalidomide & vitamin c & chemical

(Defective organs and promises of well-being)

foodstuffs with no nutritional value

(The stuff of signifiers-trou flée)

O those heady days before we taught

(Heads will roll, Führer)

toddlers to cough pandemic for the LOLS

(Surprise Everyone! The hysteric coughed, Pas tout-ler!)

wreathed in the smoky melancholic air

(Mirrors do but show us Masks)

though now you spruik yourself shrieking freedoms!

(Spruik Bruce: How do you sing the lord’s song in Austraaaaaaaalia?)

like a full-grown loon into the shadow’s mouth

(fly away from the City loon, like Thebes through the mouth of the Sphinx)

under a gyrating pyramid of hot-desked riot cops

(or at the disc-0 beside the River of Babble-On?)

& twitter punditry, the butt-ends & the ray-bans

(A learned man, sure did Pun-dit, Array-Ban)

of social life crunching like bone spirits

(Society does not exist, life, on the other hand has a Bone-y-M)

beneath the baboon boots, and the swell

(Ça marche-these boots were made for walking)

of jibing clicks on the Geiger’s chary face

(Chary of telling the whole truth, she-burn)

telling a hoary story of glory for the boys

(Oh the whores who declare the King of France is bald in 1905!)

popping horse-dewormer like click-bait

(Is a horse a horse or an i-dia of the horse?)

in a Wittgensteinian confirmation abyss

(Meaning is Use-less, sat-y-sfaction is use)

this I guess in different ways is like

(Always equivocal Being-ob-via)

an end, not only for us, but for whatever kept

(Austossung baby-it’s a hole new You-Tues all-bum)

the whole burning like the eucalypt forests

(burning the bush of jouissance, the Plus Personne can emerge, Eu-cover Compactly)

& a billion screaming creatures foaming ash

(Oh the enth-ousia-sme of one-in-a-billion mistaken for knowledge-Vociferate!)

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