Author: Lars Iyer

Negativity turned loose. Negativity going wild. Negativity screaming with laughter. With itself.

The power of negation. That shows itself as laughter. That tears it open: the human sky. The sky above us. The sky into which we laugh. We always laugh into the sky.

It's the sky that receives our laughter. The real sky. Not the satellited sky. Not the Skynetted sky. Not the chem-trailed sky. Not the full-of-nanoparticulates sky. Not the all-set-up-for-holograms sky. Not prepared-for-the-fake-Second-Coming sky.

The real sky, which is a tear in the fake sky. Which is the crack in the old sky. The tearing of which is the apocalypse – our apocalypse.

The new sky – always new. Unto which we cry. And from which we’ll be born – reborn. Our second birth. Our real birth. In laughter. A laughter that tears open laughter. That opens it wide. That renders it abyssal.

A burning that is the real sky. A work of destruction that is the real sky. An explosion that is the real sky. A fury that is the real sky, and nothing but the real sky.

 

We have to tear their sky open. We have to destroy their chem-trailed sky. Their full-of-aluminium-and-barium sky. Their poisoned sky. From which poison rains down upon us.

 

The sky is blocked. Nothing we see up there is real.

The false sky hides the true sky. They’ve buried the real sky. They don’t want it. They don’t want to face it. They don’t want it to see them. To see through them. To sear through them. They didn’t want be x-rayed by the real sun. They don’t want their shame to be seen.

The dream of preparing a cadre of apocalyptic youth. Equipped for the horror. Ready to strike. Terrorists, even. Doubters of all things.

Who wouldn’t, like us, compromise all the way. Who wouldn’t, like us, just take a place in the system. Who wouldn’t apologise for the system, essentially.

 

The dream of building a cadre of philosophy shock troops. Sleeper cells, programmed to awoken at some trigger word. Nihilists awake! Thought terrorists, ready to strike …

 

We’ll help them deepen their personal problems. Their mental illnesses. Turn their despair epochal. World-historical. Weaponize their anxiety.

Change our syllabus to train them for world-collapse. Hand to hand fighting. Practical cannibalism. Foraging and raiding. Tips to surviving the new containment camps.

 

Nihilistic youth: that’s who we’ll create. Singing their death songs. Inured to pending doom.

 

We’re here to work on your souls, we’ll explain. Teach them the truth of every conspiracy theory.

 

Everything is backwards. Everything is inverted. Doctors are here to destroy health. Big pharma to make sure we stay sick. Banks are here to destroy the economy. The weapons manufacturers will make sure we stay at war. Science is here to destroy the truth. Psychiatrists to destroy minds. And unis are here to destroy education. That’s what we’ll teach them.

 

Stunned silence. That’s what we want from the class.

We want to break them in some sense. Their optimism. Their sense of privilege. On their three year gap year. We want to reach them. Shock them. Give them a sense of urgency.

 

Aims and objectives: to bring you to the uttermost of world disgust. Intentions: to depress you. To flail you, mentally. To break you down, but never build you back up.

 

PowerPoint: Goya’s Disasters of War. One by one. For starters. To set the tone.

There’s no way out of philosophy through philosophy. Philosophy just means more philosophy.

 

Negative philosophy, like negative theology.

 

Disgustosophy.

They’re switching off the God-gene. They’re CRISPR editing us to zombiedom. They’re shrouding us in brain-fog. They’re frying us from the inside. They’re roasting the brains in our heads.

This is humanity 2.0. This is homo obedient. The new breed of servitor.

 

There are a lot of us to manage.

There’ll be fewer of us soon.

You mean –

Depopulation. Reducing the human stock.

Are they actually doing that?

That’s their motivation, isn’t it? Cull the useless population.

 

They’re patenting new viruses for the new plagues. And new jabs for the new plagues.

They’re readying the bioweapons in biolabs, in non-treaty countries.

 

They’re destroying our capacity for independent thought. Shrouding us in brain-fog. For resisting authority. Don’t you think it’s deliberate?

They’re gene editing us into compliance. Frying us from the inside. Roasting  the brains in our heads. The capacity for philosophy – that’s what they’re targeting. The ability to question.

 

They’re dialing us down. They’re shutting down our faculties. Switching parts of us off. Targeting the part of our brain responsible for belief, for independence.

They want us docile. Ready for orders.

 

They haven’t got the stomach simply to murder us outright – not yet. There are more gentle form of murder. More humane.

 

They’re experimenting with murder – slow murder. With slow soul strangling. Slow brain damage.

There are seven billion types of murder, one for each of us. They have all these new weapons to try. Years of menticide research. They’re trying They have all these new weapons to try. Good and evil mean nothing to them.

 

They’re drunk with power. With the capacity to kill. They’re trying them out – all the slow weapons in the arsenal. All-out stealth assault. On every frontier. Chemical. Biological. Mental. From all directions. From land, from earth, from sea. From space. From every frequency.

 

The air itself – poisoned. The clouds themselves – poisoned. The dust that falls through the air – poison dust. The earth at our feet – poisoned. The grass – poison grass.

They’re poisoned it all. They’ve saturated it all. It’s omnicide.

What’s amazing is that there’s anything alive.

 

It’s open season. It’s a war against all. Nothing’s off limits. Them against us, on every frontier.

Conscience – what’s that? Ethics – shrug. Legality – you can get round that.

 

Psychopaths recruiting psychopaths. Psychopaths training psychopaths. That’s politics. Psychopaths, increasing psychopathy. Whipping it up anew. Squaring it. Cubing it. Evil isn’t evil enough – not yet.

 

Have they got inside us? Changed our genes? The microflora in our guts? Our PH balance? Have we been infiltrated? Have they already breached our bodies’ defences? Is there a ticking timebomb inside our hearts? Does our bloodstream slip with smartblood?

Our nervous systems – are they still ours? Our thoughts – our brains – are we still in charge? Are we captains of our ship?

 

They’re looking for a total management solution. They’re working on a global solution. On a climate solution. Or a human solution. For a docility solution. For an antisocial behaviour solution. For a total surveillance solution. For a population control solution.

They’ve studied the great control systems from the past. They’re up on the techniques of Hitler and Mao. The ancient Romans. They’re keen students of tyrannical history.

 

You know they can never just leave us alone. They’re refining their techniques. Their love of planning. Their love of making us do stuff.

Do you think they believe it’s for our own good? Do they tell themselves that anymore? Do they actually need a noble lie? An alibi? Or is it just the naked desire for control? Is it China-envy, basically?

What’s their motivation? Are they descendants of certain bloodlines? Heirs? Inheritors? Are they the latest instigators of centuries-old plans, programmes, techniques? Are they working, like their ancestors, in secret? Behind the scenes? Pulling the levers … Making Decisions … Managing?

Do they periodically get together with other bloodline scions? Compare notes. How are you getting on? Coordinating plans … Checking progress …

Are them themselves controlled? Prevented from rebelling? Carefully brainwashed? Brought up to carry on the family business. The bloodline business.

They’ve been bred carefully. With the right people. Trained to internalise the mission. To carry it forward.

And if they step out of line, what then? Are they murdered? Threatened with kompromat?

Perhaps we should feel sorry for them, too. They’re as controlled as we are.

 

How come we don’t know anything about them?

They don’t want fame. Publicity. To see their faces in Hello! To have history books written about them.

What do they get out of it then? What’s their motivation?

Rulership. Control.

But doesn’t it get boring?

They like to watch us. Befriend us now and again. Share some of their secrets, knowing they’ll never be believed.

Do they have pangs of conscience? Isn’t it lonely at the top? How do they keep their secrets?

They murder dissenters. Assassins will come. Boston breaks applied to their car … Look, there are so many people on the payroll … Sworn to secrecy … Secret networks of influence, running through NGOs and governments and corporations … Like the Masons. And, who knows, including the Masons. And the military …

The certainty of the fucking end. The most beautiful thought … The most irresistible thought … The most seductive thought. It’s coming. The end is fucking nigh.

 

Just imagine the world were ending tonight. That this was the last night. So beautiful.

The great no-more. The great finish line. The great guillotine blade, flashing down. The beauty of starlight on the blade. Chopping down. Cutting down.

And your head severed from your neck, flying out.

 

Cruelty – that’s what we want. A cruel, but quick death. Not torture – we’ve had enough of torture. Every day is fucking torture. Time is torture.

The point is an end of time. The point is the cut off. The cutting off the head of time. The point is the end. The point is the severing.

A cauterized wound. A burnt-clean wound.

Just a blow – the swordstroke – and the smooth wound.

 

So cut our throats. Strike us dead – all at once. Death at one blow. Death, sudden. Death, lightning-striking. We don’t want to wait any longer. Waiting itself is torture.

Let it end – tonight. Let the world end – tonight.

 

Every drinking night is a desire-for-the-world’s-end night. To drink is to desire the end. To drink for the end. To toast the end. To laugh at the prospect of the end.

We’re coming to it, the end. We’re rushing forward to meet it, the end. Just as it’s rushing to meet us. Our hour, the end. What will save us: the end. The axe blade falling. The flashing light, reflected on the blade.

 

Death comes, like God. Or is it God coming, like death?

Death’s approach, God’s approach: pure mercy. Finitude. The deliverance of the limit. The fact that it doesn’t have to go on forever. That the death sentence will be carried out. That the judgement will be served.

 

Round me off. Round off my life. Bring it to an end, a perfect end. Let there be no more. Relief. Release. A gasping upward. A cry of relief, upwards. That there will be no more. That time will be at an end – for me. That an apocalypse will come – for me.

 

And what will be revealed? A world, without me. The world, minus me. The perfection of the world, without me. The wound healed. Negation negated. A perfect plenitude. The world healed – of me. And me healed – of the world. Suits us both …

 

Like being forgiven. Like being pardoned of sins.

The world will be healed of you – of your memory. You needn’t trouble the world any longer. You needn’t be like a bad dream of the world. Like a nightmare of the world.

 

We didn’t fuck up the entire world.

 

We will be forgiven. You will pass out of this life.

 

The evil purged. Catharsis – of the world. The world’s happy. The world’s relieved.

 

Our kind will pass out of existence. We won’t last. We can’t last. We’ll be bred out.

 

We’re extraneous. Superfluous. Our kind aren’t needed. The world’s had had enough of our kind. And rightly so.

We’ve had enough of us. We’ve been here too long – we know that.

 

Now for our last words. Our words have always been last words. We’ve said too many last words. Our entire oeuvre: last words. Everything we’ve ever said: last words.

Our last silence. The relief of not having many words to say. Of not having to let more words loose. Of not having to fill up the world with more words. Not saying stuff. Of having no more to say.

 

An end, the end. It’s a beautiful thought. God, saying: enough.

Kneeling down and thanking God. Kneeling and saying, thanks for death. Saying, thanks for the beauty of death. The absoluteness of death. The cleanness of death.

 

We’ve outlived our time. We’d always outlived it. We were born wrong. What remains is to correct the error.

 

The great Simplicity. The great Ordering.

It’s here; it’s come. It’s welcome. We’ve wanted nothing else.

The correction – celestial. The end – heaven come to earth.

 

God, the executioner. God, the ender of pain. God the suffering-ender. God, the silencer of screams. God, the annihilator. Who twists the neck in mercy. Who crushes the skull in mercy.

God, the merciful. Who does what is needed.

 

The divine DIGNITAS. The godly strangler. The celestial executioner. Who drowns the kittens …

That beautiful moment when you realise you haven’t got long left.

A terminal case, in the last moments. In the final agony … A roaring in the ears. A roaring, as of vast applause. You’ve done it. You’re going to die. The end has come, and it’s beautiful.

Death, coming. And savouring its coming. Savouring the last moments. The last glory. Savouring the time from now to the end, to the utter end.

 

Your blood, running out. Your blood, draining from your system. What could be more beautiful?

 

Death, death. No more of this wicked world. No more devils and archons. No more powers and principalities. No more Satan-on-earth. No more screams, no more cries. No more day-and-night torment.

Only drunken time matters. Only insobriety matters.

The time between drinking is wasted time.

 

We’re not drunk enough. We’re not angry enough. We’re not appalled enough. We not screaming enough. We’re not hateful enough. Our blood isn’t frothing enough.

 

We spend a lot of my time, utterly pissed. We go from pub to pub, utterly pissed. We stagger around the pubs, utterly pissed. We buy drink after drink, utterly pissed.

We order at bars, utterly pissed. We sit out in beer gardens, utterly pissed …

 

We’re too low. Not scattered across the lowlands.

We need alcohol to lift us up. To bind us together. To bring us together. We have to find the ardency. The hatred. The high seriousness.

 

We need to reach a promontory of drinking. To be able to look out – see what’s happening. Take in the whole fucking panorama. From sea to shining sea or whatever.

 

We become visionaries when we drink. We SEE when we drink. We need to be out of the lowlands. Out of the valleys.

 

This is why we have to drink. To climb up. To attain it – a viewpoint. To be able to SEE. With the right intensity. With the intensity of focus. With the right narrowness of focus.

 

This is a last redoubt. This is a last stand – here, in the pub. They’re coming for us. They’re make their way. Sure, they haven’t quite reached us yet …

 

Our drinking superpowers.

 

We’re reaffirming … the power of assembly. Drunken assembly.

If this were a film, it’d be a mood piece, low on plot.

It could be a surf movie. Look at those guys over there.

Do you surf?

No.

Do you?

No. I’m happy not surfing.

So let’s spice it up. Suppose … suppose there was a coast monster.

You want it to be a monster movie?

Sure!

Tell me about your monster.

He wants to die, and can’t. He’s very old, very ancient. He’s seen the rise of humanity, from beginning to end. And he’s sick of it … You can hear him shouting at night sometimes.

Is that what he does: shout?

Sure – from pain. Like dull pain. One day … one day he’ll just devour us all.

What’s stopping him now?

Hope. Stupid hope.

Something has gone very wrong.

With us?

Cosmically, I think. On the other side of the universe. Some death-ray has finally reached us. Some despair ray. Some forcefield of utter horror.

Why us?

Oh, it’s everyone. They’re just in denial.

A cosmic catastrophe. A new kind of radiation, or something, that reveals itself in despair stroke horror.

So we’re astronomers.

Of sorts.

We’re cosmologists.

Of a weird kind.

We’re astronomers.

In a certain sense.

Amazing.

We’re in tune. We’re musicologists. We’re hearing the disharmony of the fucking spheres.

To think, we are to prepare our undergraduates for the world, for that world. To think, we have to equip them to survive out there …

Do they know how doomed they are? Could they bear to know? And after what’s already been done to them? My God …

We should read them their last rites. Say the prayers of the dead over them.

 

Posters of student work on the purple noticeboard. Posters on their work. From the Apocalypse Now and Then module. From the Contemporary Omnicide module. From the Neural Weaponry module.

Covering the purple noticeboard with their work. With their individual takes on the horror. On so many horrors!

 

Do you ever sense, like, an immense evil? we ask them. Do you ever sense an immense goodness? Are these the end times, like it says in the Bible?