Erik Jespersen
10 min readFeb 18, 2022

See there! { Bionic myopia — vision fogged with the inaleatoric concept of objectification, wherein sits just anything you can imagine. } A son is born { Generous thanks to you for the lack of precision; burdened with the knowledge of metaphor or biorealism needn’t be we — imagination prevails, two-nil! } and we pronounce him fit to fight { I believe biological ethical philosophers pronounce it ‘phyto-phyte.’ Or even more colloquially nowadays, byte-to-byte, for everyone’s consentual information collides with everyone else’s. }. There are blackheads on his shoulders { The Master Swindler, the scupper-goat of Jonassalk-cyborg injection fame across the prairies of woolen mawmouth Tuskalgae, governed by a faith-modal need to contradict, spoke of Zuluthrustoria [ a potted planter of fern-like plasticity shuddering as the elevator drawers open ] to the minnow-nibbled cornears of cotton-coffer-headed slave owners whose whip-itchy palms tremored with intoxication. He felt his throat quaver with the rejection of deduction, and his spinal register hummed with bronzen interdiction. [ But what did she have to say? ] } and he pees himself in the night. { For sure! If you saw his hulking darkened frame looming past midnight behid behind bedroom curtains of feverish nightmare, you, too, would loose a golden dream of a righteous and vengeful God to calm the unsoothed mass. } We’ll { Behind me hid the trailing zero, and so together we collected our awarded unearned war ribbons in a tackle box meant for luring the Canterbury Cat from its toxic hovel of poisondome. Be forewarned, furniture, yours is next on the lathing block! }/make a man of him { By what measure? Inches? Centimeters? Life years? Light years? Cognition alone is the hot air reed instrument that indicated an altitude and a delta to jar the mucky silt of a new multi-remuniverse into recognotion. Once digestive acids are pumped from the bladder, he’s got nothing left to learn. }/put him to a trade { Fifteen-pound pfeathers and an engine ballable bearings for the artful nayigger in your ivory crest pocket. I heard it could lift a mountain with the right dynamite. And generate heat all through the night, groped the maidens bathed in sweat! Toss a metal dollop into the electric donke to geld the mustang with a machete, and taxiderm the horn as a mounted decoration on your blood-parlor walls, papered with sqaures of sham certificates. } — { Oh, I’m sorry, Cletus, it’s just you! You look dreadful in your steamsoot of coal-food, and that pict-axe raised menacingly against the stone! Have you been drudgering the metal dragon that geyser outbursts with: “Toot, toot! It’s almost time to leave the stays-in!”? It’s always warm to the touch, is that true? }/teach him/how to play Monopoly { The copratilist bet his entire hedgerow on New Scamsterdam cryptographic tulips believing they came with White Willow’s gnarled-bud pussy imparted directly from the rot-light district. He fingered the till with fake digits until the in-house counsel caught up with him, and asked him politely to desist and refrain, or justice would be rendered like a lineup of corporate corpulent pigs. He asked his relatively new secretary to outstretch her hand to check the precipitation, and her report was her brief. }/not to sing in the rain. { It’s running clear, she sighed. }

See there! A man is born and we pronounce him fit for peace [ Consent was effective knowledge collaboration. Otherwise there was just too much data. We needed to retain the sensible connections of information to reduce processing costs. We became a self-self-sorting mechanism. If the universe is indeed information, we are one method of categorizing information and describing knowledge. { Who dares quoth? } Logic’s simple principles! The mere fact of anti-entropic organization and the systems it radiates. Imagine colliding “I’m voting for Trump!” against “I’m voting for Biden!” and the simple near-complete cancellation of informational waves occurs, and, like with the wily electron’s hazy orbit, we don’t need to look for useful knowledge, knowledge here being systematized information systems used for better prediction or enhanced productivity, there unless all of the other processing routes fail. ]. There’s a load [and an iPad ] lifted from his shoulders with the discovery of his disease. We’ll/take a child from him/put it to the test/teach it to be a wise man/how to fool the rest.

“We will be geared towards the average rather than the exceptional.” [ Fascist supporters are fundamentally diseased by information sets that wish to completely dominate them. But how is such a lost and loathsome notion so successful? Because, while the audience is limited, it’s a voting bloc that’s been cultivated into deep-dress stupidity by long decades of social engineering by eschewing any support allocations to public education or the meeting of any nominal standards. They didn’t worry about brain drain or brain flush, because the stupid natives could easily be trained to fight against further immigration from other more enlightened climes. Young, dumb, and afraid. And diseased, because this frightened stupid animal was unhappy being so young, dumb, and afraid. They needed to be fed a diet of rage, outrage, malevolence, and hatred. This chattle chow turns out to be excitingly cheap, and suddenly even those who “know better” notice the concept and immediately start donating fields of caskets to be used as troughs, from Mr. Big to Mr. Big Dick and even Mr. Dick and his little man, Junior! ]

So you ride yourselves over the fields and{ Even on the busiest of days, mangled with stress and deadline, Guy Corporate — Boy Genius and Child Star — would always find time to strap on his cowhide chaps, don his white ten gallon, grab Pony’s pogo from the umbrella stand and bop and gallop naked around the dining room firing his toy rainbow six-guns into the popcorn ceiling, sound-effecting with loud, aspirated, and frothy “pew-pew!”’s. [ It’s not that she understood what this was about, only that he required this moment of reductive buffoonery to execute on provision acquisition. Meanwhile, she caked and uncaked her face from small, stout glass bottles, artist palettes, and wire brushes… ] }/you make all your animal deals { What’s a man, but an ass? And what good’s an ass who can’t bear a heavy load upon its strapping back? And when allowed to exchange the labor of animals for the magicks of authorial voices, all mammals were thence equal in the eyes of the Lord. } and/your wise [ HA! ] men don’t know how it feels to be thick as a brick. [ I also cannot claim. Our meat is porous and liquid. It oozes with the brisk flush of arterial nectar, mercurial and quicksilver, splashing over the edge of a tin basin, suddenly finds time to suspend before exploding into droplets on unwashed basement bathroom tile. She knows she cannot shriek or she’ll be heard, but she claps her bloody palms to her horrified lips, leaving warpaint biased against her face. ]

Jethro Tull — Thick as a Brick by Ian Anderson

Hot chick.
Photo by Bailey Burton on Unsplash

The greatest musical assessment of the plebian we call mankind. We are the common man as the fool, and are shown his faults. No resolution, of course, other than things must stay the way they are. Funniest thing is that with the obscurity of the lyrics, only the wise men could understand it. However, I think that that is the way Ian intended it.

Where does the small man come from? { The Great Ape lumbered onto the floor of the House to censure Death. } The small child? The beaten child? A child at all? Is society the foster of idiocy and does it not seek to perpetuate the problems | The wise wish to keep on top, so keep the masses predictable. | But do the wise still lead? Or do the rich and greedy. If we have fallen out of the hands of the wise then we are truly spiraling for disaster, if there is no indiscernible ulterior motive to our government. Than we are flushly screwed.

The great man has never known what it means to beg? [ If by great, you mean white, then no. ] Or just the leader. [ Begging became a partnership of bullshit where one lays down, pretending to be mutilated by a stray bullet, or in “protest” of the “man” or in misunderstanding that he was merely crazy tired. Emphasis on crazy. ] The middle and lower classes are heavy with expecting beauty that can only be aborted by improper attempts to salvage.[ And the rattle of the tin cup was the reminder that we were never so displacingly far apart. That he believes in money just as much as you do, that he only needs a new pair of Florsheim’s…]

[…and he’ll definitely be able to secure that corner office in no time. ] My ideal self and I, the dweller of reality, only the harbor for dreams, a summer mooring, sit across from each other by candlelight, surveying one another, already knowing the other so well… so why the hesitation in this moment? [ And all agreeing complexions nod in agreement, and the clasps of the fannie-packs pop open like minting champagne. ] We can each look at ourselves, but choose to ignore that. The ideal self a monument of good judgment tempered with perfect knowledge. Nearly every living/non-living nuance is encompassed with his sight — in every gesture a meaning — in every eye a misfortune and in every heart an answer to the misfortune — and he can tap that answer and reveal it to the pain-bearer. And asks nothing in return save the satisfaction. It is his duty, his love, his salvation. To ease the soul. Ease the souls to save them from enduring the pain he bore. He can cry for every one of them — he can forgive every one of them, only because he can understand every one. He is God. He is my God. He is me. I am God now I need only to prove it to myself. [ Oops! Was that the cork? Sorry, bartender, that was a real Harvey Wallbanger! Ha! Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Just serve up your noggin on the rocks. Ha! ]

In the emerald halls of death upon the bronze walls we are all champions.

I am always tense. [ Fuck. The bubbles are pouring all over the deck of the yacht we just purchased — can someone please get some apparition of a human up here to clean up this mess? ] My shoulders are always hunched in stressed paralysis. [ We’re not paying you to stand around! ] The ideal self relaxes in comfort and understanding. I cannot be happy until I reach that elite 3% of mankind safe and accepting life. I am afraid of being human. [ What do you think we are, some gaggle of ninny-picking idiots? ] He looks at all the benefits, not the hardships. His relationship is flourishing because at least he deludes himself with perfection, does not recognize he has accepted imperfection. [ Listen, I’ll tell you, you better not insult us doers, us doctors, us employers, us system managers. ] His love amazes him in the word (written, spoken, it doesn’t matter) and he amazes her with his complexity and outlook. [ You know damn well we pay you well for your time — and if not in burdensome jangles of coins, we pay for your housing, transportation, your clothing. ] He saw Karen, and he saw that she was good. But she was an empty vessel not eager to be filled — certainly not eager to fill. [ And religion, where would you and your savages be without our savior Jesus Christ? ] He saw that she was good, but he saw that she was not perfect. [ Jumping around with spears in grass skirts in the rain forests is where you’d be. ] She was only something. [ Yeah, I bet it gets real thick up in there in the rainy season. ] But why is nothing better than something especially when your life’s built on the love of people (as is God)? [ Amiright? The whole place is just one funky sauna. ] He couldn’t answer, he couldn’t say. But what he would say is right. So he amazes. He amazes through his writing of music and words. He is the greatest. Period. [ We’re not so different you and I, and honestly, it’s better you hear this from me, from a friend, before it gets you into trouble. ] He is the universal ego. [ I’m watching you, but I’m also looking out for you. { Need me to get out the whip again? } ]

And all of this is outlined by candlelight in a moment in his face. He wears a beard and his hair pulled back in a ponytail. And the light is beginning to fade. I close my book slowly and I imagine how he must laugh at me. { I laugh at you because you are me, and because we’re not quite there yet. } — { But we’ll see the merry shores of Odense again, won’t we Faffi? I remember the dolls I made of stones and how they joked with the surf about falling. But the stumbling waves thought of the choking reins of harvest moon, and the stones thought of how the heart of a planet wished to hug them fiercely until they melted. }, hopefully laughing only because it is only time that rests between us and not the solid oak of this fucking table.

She took his hand suggestively and pulled him into her inner hold. And he knew that all he had to give was a perfect body with a sakful of perfect sperm poised to inject. [ Solipsism reared its very own ugly head again. Again, and again with every thought that caricatured an idea across its delusional mental campus. ]

With the scream of the pierce of a needle and the push of a pin the sacrificial high ebbed her mind and her eyeballs blank in vice and verse accepted the new terms of paradise and the fruits of liberation, taking the apple from Adam.

Sweet juice to sink the taste and they were all equal in their disgust.

And they were both perfect on the outside, except for the leak of semen on her inner thigh — the inner eye clouded by its mist of emptiness.

{ And here I thought Biocentrism was pitching its tent on a tidal wave… }



Erik Jespersen

MyLife Founder, humanist, futurist, posthumanist philosopher, software engineer, novelist, composer