to begin, then, is always already to end

Michel Foucault was obsessed with...all his life...
Jack Sheppard let himself feel frustration, pain, emotion, but only in a controlled way...

something like a catharsis

the written word is a limited myth
(as this is)

to admit defeat
before the project that language sets before us
that linguistic existence Is

a rough inarticulate scream
the desire for annihilation
still cries within me
somewhere i've hidden
so that no one can locate its insanity
it's frustration with All and Everything
the limitedness of being

I want to die so badly
I'm tired of these hands and eyes
and the limits of the memes and genes
that compose this
me
Thing

Hume recognized the distinction
between is and ought.
There is no provable or demonstrable "ought."
If this fact filtered out into everyday society
rational persons might become selfless or selfish or habitual criminals.
Survival is no longer obligatory, nor is law or order or hope

I'm probably just a piecemeal composition of memes,
confused and unable to derive some sort of internal coherence
the kind necessary for the capital machines to process my labour-power
to turn me into just another piece of shit driven by the "obligation"
to trade labor for capital, feeding injustice...
not that "injustice" "ought" to compel my attention, my memory, my action
even were it shown to exist



There's an ignoble decentering within me
I can't hold on to the idea of any idea
or the hope of any hope
seizing my attention

because (too often, probably), when I think
I think the whole human race.
We can't ignore Auschwitz or the absurdists
or the insane waste of time that modern scholarship
probably is.

Nor can I for some reason extirpate the "ought" of my desire-towards poetry.

For shame.