A Panapocalyptic Manifesto

My friend barely knew Bizzare. But it didn’t prevent him from obtaining knowledge about the mystical socio-shamanistic agenda immaculately elaborated via a fruitful and persistent communal collaboration. Mainly, zarry(E) was that fabulous source of information. As a mother, she shared that secular-sacred epistemological treasure out of an unquestioned sense of responsibility towards someone who’d most probably stay on this planet longer than she. Should natural order preclude accidents from creating a different scenario.  Or, just out of a strong sense of being a mother.

A gang of poets, free thinkers, chancers, passers by, philosophers by nature, critics by vocation, theologians by decree, doctors by degree, rascals by pedigree, smooth operators by innate predilection, rokkaz by choice, literati by birth, neuro-linguists by blood, christened into psychoanalysis, resurrected from the ashes of ego into the haze of superego , former junkies-turned-economy-heads, cannibalistic worshippers of the military-entertainment shrine, stock market hobbyists, mathematicians of desire, students of deskilling, fragile verbal buds, painters of golden splashes on beige canvasses, love haters, rough maters, dark matters. To hell with darkness, was their motto. To fuck with everything else, was everybody’s everyday. Life was the other. The other was everywhere. I questioned that reciprocity a few years after.

The dream of life as it would be imagined by the fulfilled before they reached nirvana was the thing this crew, crudely thrown into the abysmal jaws of robozomboid reality, were obsessed with. Free exchange of an ethereal flow generated an agenda of revelatory dimensions. Minds in full swing, hearts in full bloom. Hurled into the eddies of the mother earth’s black leather ornamented loins, propagated the idea of happiness based neither on prosperity nor on content. But both. They advocated for a communal life thriving on radiance created from the magnetic coil, short circuiting the noise blooming from static electricity. From self-sustaining and, simultaneously, self-suspending interior combustion engines. They believed in multigamy as a counteract to calcified polygamy. They praised technology as the pioneering force of moral advancement.The sun of their galaxy was free will. Their bodies were the temples of that sun.

They put tremendous effort in the pursuit of annihilation of the monetary system. Barter or nothing at all, was one of the slogans that could be found on the ruins of old factory buildings swaying like trees on grim, windy mornings. The belief in the power of graffiti was to survive their peril physical existence and emanate into the world tales born from spray can embryos. Color of the rising sun was their coat of arms. Gentle whisper- kiss of the sunset their lullaby. In noman’s land: between day and night, neither inside, nor outside. The air was yellow. The streets alien. Other worlds unknown, ungraspable, and unlivable  from that insular reality of the school of deskilling.

The beauty of the Arctic gradually etching a new genetic map on their chromosomes. The sea’s seductively misty depths inscribing a fresh texture on the epithelium. The lab and the welcoming micro slides an ever inspiring hypodermal wellspring of élan vital. Bizzare was king of that scientific-experimental empire. My friend barely knew him. He was a torchbearer for the life-generating panapocalyptic  dream. zarry(E) was his sidekick. She was my friend’s mother. She was hard-wierded to the greenery of nature. She knew a lot.