Experimental

Dear Anon

To the fragile wastrel stranded in a less than pacific globalism: ‘Hey son, Keynes’ son, bad debtson’. We’ve seen a recrudescence, as ever, as ever. Debtson’s at the gate. The gateway leads and the leads lead to no individual behind the masses, whether hooked up to the Matrix or locked in a room with a finger on...what exactly. A chancre on the bump of language, flowing in cell division: a text-speak 4 grammatical indifference, sad at its own obsolescence. My wit, ow! In lieu of Whitman, it remains for X –  ……. – plz fl free 2 fill in 4 me – to sing the body electrified by the blinking spectral light of an ethernet port and Wi-Fi omni-scient -present -potent, omni omni omni, ommmmm, already in our bodies our new Moloch maybe Allen, but surely our current and ever updated Cyborgian Leviathan. Your Constitution please! Sign there. X. It’s our hope for information of a global proletariat that keeps us at desks, moonlighting, hooked through the gills of our fingers, bedimming daily. Information obviating an information revolutionary: we were sucked into a Flame War on a messageboard, and Civil War come down! We find ourselves increasingly incapable in our collapsed globe – now flatter and folded, a quarto crucible – of addressing the global poor. Outside, our picnic was interrupted by raging tides/a blockade of hail/a Martian gale. I looked to the skies. Still no E.T. Darling, love, there were no hors d’oeuvres. I’m drunk. Love, I’ll try to get outside, but I’ve got a notion the Fire Exit’s alarmed. After you. Best wishes. Yours unfaithfully.

Alasdair Menmuir