Ink & Metal: Work-in-Progress by R.G. Vasicek

Yes. Work. Progress. All of it: in a nutshell. Split the atom. We make noises because we are human beings. We think. Language machines are eating people. Skizzenbuch. Zig’s Notebooks in Prague. Augenblick. We regurgitate information. We are programmable. We are made of elementary particles. Zigzagging is required to elude U-boats. Thought experiments. Are you a machine? Are you a spontaneous thinker? Paprika goes into the goulash in Amerika. 

There is no statistical regularity to human fucking. No pattern we can see. It just happens. Or does not. Sounds & waveforms made during an orgasm. Claude Shannon coins “information theory” in a secret paper.

And yet what? What means anything.

Uncertainty.

Surprise. 

Her name is Zoë. She wields her hips in a crescent lunge on the cusp of a come. She is a secret policewoman. She records everything people say into a notebook. She is a poet. A dreamer.

Information is entropy.

She instructs her lovers: Draw in your belly. Crescent lunge. Fuck. Excellent. Again. 

She pushes apart his buttocks and gives a critical examination of his asshole. She ejects the man from her apartment. His name is Moosbrooger, a giant Neanderthal of a man.

Moosbrooger wanders the metropolis like a buffoon. Enters a tavern. Orders a Pilsner. 

Omphalos of dreams. People are everywhere. Nightmares. The metropolis speaks its truth. Every edifice. Every street.

Well. Here I am. New York New York New York. Metropolis of amores. Never quite becoming. Almost. Not quite. City of almost. Stacy’s hips. What might I have done for Stacy’s hips? Wielded over me. Crescent lunges. Yelps of Patchogue Patchogue Patchogue!

Is/was. We keep trying. Amerika is a memory.

Yes. This is fun. Whatever this is. A ride. A journey. A labyrinth. We speak into each other’s earholes. Brain algorithms. A whisper. A breath. A murmur. 

Plug in the numbers. Eat the lasagna. Everybody is everybody. Singularities are rare. Every now and again: a surprise: a boo. A Boolean search reveals all. Almost. Not quite. Tip of iceberg.

The funhouse mirror is a collide-o-scope.

Machine fragments in your skull. Titanium-plated cranium. Your cerebellum jiggles like Jell-O. And/or J-Lo. We are machine creatures. We are projections. Holograms. Delusions. Hallucinations. A short-circuit in the Computer. Machine language.

Ugly day. Television storm. November leaves plummet. Look: another one! You speak to me like a half-sister. I remove your panties. Isabel & Pierre. The Kraken lurks in all the Minds of the Planet. 

I like the simplicity of my existence: a desk. a chair.

She says: Do you like chocolate? She pulls out my cock and begins to suck. I am bug-eyed. Rigid. Ass clenched. Eager to cum. Abstain. 

Our naked bodies entangled in the quadrangle. The audience is bigger than we expected.

writing gets us nowhere because the flicker is already flickering and i cannot see what is coming because i am a human being at a machine in an invisible factory  

Megafloods on Mars 3.6 billion years ago

Are we capturing any of this? Your camera is peculiar. Eyeball the size of a grapefruit. Grid engaged. Rule of Thirds. A hand slides down the back of your underpants. Is she kissing your mouth? Rigid cock in a latex condom. She wants you to rubber-fuck her pussy. Her clitoris is erect. Grinding. She opens opens

Zig’s life in ink & metal. Particles of light. Electric light. Starlight. Furnace of a yellow dwarf sun. We keep fighting. Fighting ourselves. Derrida speaks of the “granular structure” of form in language. “Spacing as writing is the becoming-absent...” Discontinuity. Discreteness. The chaos of Kierkegaard. The Aztecs of Mexico. The Mayan glyphs. “The stream of oral speech...” Chaosmos. Hypermedia. The criminalization of journalism. Human brains in a cloud chamber. I lean against a kitchen cabinet, and I watch her give me a blowjob. My ass is bare & clenched. Whole milk in the refrigerator. Skim milk. I come like an ox. Signal & noise. Radiotelegraph operators. We are perpetual-motion machines. Blurs. Distortion. Feedback. I come in your mouth. You come in mine. 69 68 67. Every position in the machine assemblage. Patience. Curiosity. A thousand words can take us to Nirvana. Silence. Emptiness. Nothingness.

She pushes her hand into my underpants for empirical “gropings.” Yes. I am hard. I want her. She receives me dogmatically. Glancing at me over her right shoulder. 

I am increasingly the worst+case scenario = me. She opens my asshole. I open hers.

The nonlanguage of fucking.

Reacting to largely manufactured threats is probably a meaningless existence. Her nipple grazes my lips. We walk around the apartment like satyrs. Half-naked in flannel shirts. Kneeling on carpets and floorboards. Everything happens inside our heads. Curtains keeps reality outside. 

Radio storms. TV storms. EMFs. Electromagnetic fucking.

COLOSSUS. Mark I. ENIAC. International Business Machines are eating the planet. Veterans of the Atari Wars.

She says: Let’s begin in First Position.

The active (firing) of neurons. You are under attack. Thoughts everywhere!

The Boolean algebra of our fucking. We are again having sex, and I like it very much. Probability theory. Soviet telephony. Czechoslovakian telephony. Artaud: “When I write there is nothing other than what I write.”

We are human computers: I make a series of electromechanical decisions. 

The television bath of violence. War on every channel. And we pay a subscription?

Nobody goes anywhere. Nobody can be anybody anymore.

Spirals & spirals of thought. Spaghetti noodles of the noggin. Gödel: “Undecidable” propositions. The flesh in a chair. Blue light. Computer. Cyborg.

Am I what Derrida calls “the man of infinite tasks”? 

Am I analog or digital?

The to-and-fro movement of fucking.

Melancholia alkoholia mechanikolia kokolia cokacolia kofolakolia

I stare out to sea. What. What. What. Every wave in every sea passes through my mind. We begin at the beginning, where else? She has known me for longer than I know myself. Zoë’s crooked smile. Her ass bobbing gently on my cock. We are lovers. We are friends. She is like a sister to me. Melville has taught me well about the “deliciousness” of a sister. Every thought is repressed. Every act is questioned. I wander too long at the edge of the sea. Knee-deep at low tide. Just beyond the reach of great white sharks. And yet these days sharks seem to swim closer and closer to shore. I am from an island. How can it be otherwise? I live in a metropolis. Park my car on the street. Everything is possible. Even nothing. Are you trying to cancel yourself? 

This work-in-progress is getting ahead of you, isn’t it? Beyond me. Every language machine on the planet stands no chance. Derrida speaks of the 1000th-generation computer. The amnesiac machine.

Cyberoptics. Cyberfucking. We got it under control. No control.

 R.G. Vasicek is the author of the Prague/NYC cybernetic anti-novel THE DEFECTORS. He tweets @rg_vasicek