MUSIC IN PHASE SPACE

Tag: William Burroughs

  • Let’s democratize this *insert business by making it more expensive

    Let’s slice through the status quo, man. Let’s take this business, this purveyor of pedestrian products or services, and inject it with a hyperdermic of exclusivity. We’ll jack the price to a level that would make a Rockefeller blink, a price that screams, “This ain’t for the Joneses, this is for the goddamn Vanderbilts!” Imagine,…

  • Narco Narcissism

    A scabrous ego, pulsating with black market hunger. It slithers up the mirrored pyramid of power, convinced it’s the diamond at the apex. This ain’t no penthouse suite, baby, it’s a roach motel wired with paranoia. The diamonds are chipped, the champagne’s bathtub gin, and the only view is a kaleidoscope of self-loathing fractured by…

  • Golems of the Ultramodern World

    Clickbait Colossus and Lord of the Sponsored Ad Cracking open this grimoire, you plunge headfirst into the fetid underbelly of the information age. Here, amidst the flickering glow of a thousand screens, lurk the unliving titans – the Golems of the Ultramodern World. Not stitched from clay, but from the very detritus of the digital…

  • The Person is the Medium

    The Static Cries: A person isn’t a channel, no mere conduit. The creative person, man, is a fleshy, oozing bio-circuit wired into the control panel of the universe. He ain’t a goddamn channel, passive and inert. No, he’s a goddamn cathode ray transmitter, a chaotic tangle of synapses amplifying the raw, buzzing data stream of…

  • Architects of Permission

    Permission Structures Power wriggles like a parasitic worm, burrowing into definitions, twisting language into wet rags. “Apartheid,” “genocide” – words pulsing with meaning, then morphing into hollow husks, sucked dry by the leeches of justification. Bureaucrats with ink-stained fingers pronounce pronouncements dripping with legalese, not blood. A word virus infects minds through media, turning “apartheid”…

  • Anti-Hedonic Inflation

    The market, a writhing flesh-mass, pulsates with a cancerous growth. Price tags morph into malignant tumors, ballooning on cans of joyless beans and flickering simulacra of entertainment. The grey dollar bleeds. Shrinks in your pocket, a junkie fiend on a score. Price tags balloon, neon tumors on the storefront whores. You reach in, pull out…

  • Pulling the plug

    The Zoog faction, wired on a hyper-flux of information, their minds flickering with memes and TikTok ephemera, regard the FaceBook with a cold, reptilian disdain. It is a monolithic grey slab, a mausoleum of outdated statuses and vacation photos, where their parents – the Boomers, once flower-power radicals – now shuffle through a senescent digital…

  • SXSW and the Military-Industrial Roach Motel

    They bug you with sponsorships, man. Like a roach motel for your soul. Take Raytheon bread, they say, it’ll get you in the door. But the door just clicks shut behind you. You’re trapped, see? Stuck shilling for the very machine you thought you were subverting. They hooked me, man. Raytheon, with their cold chrome…

  • Financial Nihilism

    The American Dream, that technicolor hallucination flickering on the screen of your youth, melts into static. it’s a roach motel. Checkin’ in easy, checkin’ out? Forget about it. The Boomers, fattened on Reagan’s trickle-down that never trickled, hoard their loot in gilded cages on the hill. This, chums, is Financial Nihilism, a virus lodged deep…

  • 1984

    Forget dials and telescreens for a sec, man. Orwell wasn’t just serving up Big Brother’s boot on your face, he was carving reality with a rusty switchblade. This perpetual war, it’s like a roach motel for the Oceania proles. Stuck in a feedback loop of fear and propaganda, pumped full of manufactured enemies – Eurasia…