Posthuman Guardians of the Canon, image by Daniel Y. Harris
X-Peri
Manifesto
“Hybrids
of Post-Humanity”
In
poetry’s narrative schism between the 20th and the 21st centuries, pre-lingual
and post-lingual tropes vie for the dominance of a new poesis. The pre-lingual
confesses. The post-lingual is post-digital and therefore post-human, now determined by Internet detritus.
Human beings can now be created out
of the refuse of bandwidth. The poetic self is now a digit, an algorithm invented as a bot. Figures are now the boolean crisis of traditional
form. To confess is to blog a confession from the spontaneous viral media of
annihilation. The original self is an avatar of post-humanity, quicker than the
emptied quick of the spammed full. Malicious software spread diseases of hyperlinks.
Vessels break to account for another unbreakable form. The text is shattered
like glass. The libido, ripe as anthropoid fertility, conjures the last Hebraic
hermeneutics.
Post-humanity
will/has broken authorial intent. Spiritus,
geist and neshamah have become the codes of Emerson’s “transparent
eyeball.” Normative narratives will not
relent to purple mold and the affected seasons of self. There are no
confessions in post-humanity. Pellicles will evoke the future as a golemic rise of the dark prompt. Now,
the hagiography is broken from She, who births a new catastrophe-creation myth
as untested experiment. Place will be severed from reference. An acrostic, x-peried
kabbalah will trumpet the new era.
Why, ask the professors of belatedness? Because the future agon will be an
ur-femmed account of creation. This pilfering of humanity is not unoriginal
genius, but rather a mock arriere-gardism,
now committed to recovering the new format of disregarded predecessors. Then,
the rabblement will be aroused to poke through platitudes seeking the hybrid,
clad in its multi-genre glam. Gray indifferences of moderation are computer
viruses. Web nonce is paravisual.
The posthuman
archive will betray region when invention is an android Tetragrammaton. Shattering.
Severing. Haemorrhaging. Bifurcating. Decoding a rogue pastiche. Tradition and
ancestral memory shatter like cheap alley glass. Notarikon and gematria vie for
a registered domain. In this pivot of course there are no balms and bromides.
Tradition is a hernia. Geography is a weakness of place and suspicious. The
anthropoids never lived here, they never heard the monotonic chimes of recall. Mediocrity will submit to the cicatrix. Post-humanity will reclaim the skin of hacked off nostalgia and create the new poetry as its Deconarratif Fession.
X-Peri 2.0
X-Peri 2.0
Eddy’s minions mark th-2period—ife,
a forWurn
of anic root da. Salvador Dracu, I presume, sub
to the threshold of a pastry coque? Hola
Wassily,
are you the Sode? No, Kemosabe, only a (bi)
Epi
of Sode is here to bear witness to
th-2period. Me,
you putrefaction, me? I’m just torted. Eddy’s gut
is lick
not tort. C’est de moi qu’il s’agit dans
ce
portrait. One months later, X-Peri devours
th-2p.
Dead
are the rating scales. Dead are confessions.
Dead is
the place of was. Lives R. Mutt aroused
by Rrose
Sélavy, five she-puns of lust, sucking
on
cubes of sugar and marble. Sepiidae, my pet,
drain
my mania to oops. Eddy depends on you,
or the
leather jackets of his ur-sexed restroyer.
—Daniel
Y. Harris
