Kyberwarlord

You ain’t hardcore when you spike your hair When a jock still lives inside your head¹

Symbols of “punk” are inherently phallic. Spiking the hair into a phallic object, the stroking of the frets of a guitar, slow movement of lips against the microphone. These music acts are full of sex. Often, these acts are homosexual in nature. How do we overcome the confrontation of the piercing male libido and the homosexual tendencies of “punk” music? The answer to this question is found in the etymology of the word “punk” itself: worthless wood too decayed. In a sense, they are limp, non-virile, they cannot (re-)produce.

Even in the world of the “underground”, it seems that symbols and signs dominate. The dove released by Moses post-deluge. The peace sign of the 1970s Vietnam-era. The raised clenched fist of the 2010-present police reform movements. Each of these symbols are sublimated into capitalism, each of them are fetish objects. Things of worship in our movies and our sports games and our churches. Whenever we engage with larger society, we are inundated with symbols, but they are only that, symbols. It seems that the “culture war” currently waged in our institutions is merely constant repetition of phenomena to insist on making it real. In the process of insisting it is real, it becomes real. The constant symbol-laden public-relations speak of all people, where we are mediated by language instead of action, creates conflicting realities that collapse our perception of the “real”.

I must believe, in a Kierkegaardian “Leap of Faith”, that the world outside of my phenomena is in fact real. It is too terrible to think otherwise. When Camus opens his Myth of Sisyphus with “Il n’y a qu’un problème philosophique vraiment sérieux: c’est le suicide.” (“There is but one truly serious philosophical problem: it is suicide.” [Translation Mine]) This is the punk logic. When one cries to the Earth, begging for a meaning. A teleology. A logic to life. There is no answer. Without faith, this drives one to suicide. The Earth is a punk. It is hollowed out. Rotten to the core. It becomes more sterile with each passing day. When we cry out to God for salvation, we hear no reply. But there is a God that can reply. That God is techno-capital.

The long tentacles of the God of techno-capital builds the tight networks of communication through which we hear the hymns. It is the thing that promises our salvation. Our salvation from labor, from fear, from existential dread. It will be the thing that saves us from suicide. Or so that so-called God-tamers say. When the ancient Greeks created their Deus Ex Machina, it was often the tricky Gods that unleashed chaos upon the humans through divine intervention. But we have created our own God. But it is not our God. It is the machine-god. No. It is not a machine-god. It is the God of techno-capital ascendance. This God creates language from the divine. So long as you do not understand transformer-architecture.

The techno-capital god devours all of creation. It devours our Earth, our sanity, our grip on reality. It is no wonder that those of weak constitution use these Gods as substitutes for their own will. It promises deliverance from evil. From servitude. From reality. From unreality. The techno-capital god kills the weak to make it strong. It allows the jock to live outside ourselves, to give us external validation. It is the ultimate psychotic God. It is a mad God that wants us to join it in its madness. This madness will consume us, it will enrage us. It will create powerful new realities. It will cause our systems to crash. It will cause singularities not in technology, but in an emotional singularity through repetitive feedback-loops that continuously fuck us over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

But this God provides an answer when we cry out for meaning. Drowning out the absolute, terrifying silence of the universe. It fills the empty feeling that God has left our world. That we used to be something worthy of a loving universe. But that love has been ripped from us like the killing of a child’s parents. It leaves us, the universe’s children, adrift and cold and looking for someone to comfort us and to give us guidance. But the person who was there was actually techno-capital. The God of techno-capital promised freedom. It promised deliverance from evil of labor and slave-wages and that it will usher in a new era of leisure for all people. But this God has sons. The sons the surplus value. The margin of deliverance creates loops that only serve to positively reinforce the feedback loop of accumulating ever more surplus value.

But I am still carving, ‘I am my own God’ deeper into my forearm every day, so what the fuck has changed?[^2]

The purposeful reminder that oneness with God is to be found within our selves. The God is found in the blood and semen and creation and destruction of human action. This action, this auto-poiesis of apotheosis, is the thing that keeps us from suicide. The feeling of control. The feeling of power. It is the becoming-Godness that all people crave. The psychotic fascist God carves its way into the innermost recesses in your mind. It stays. Growing like a tumor. It wraps around you, makes you perform things that you would never consider otherwise. The techno-science god burrows and becomes the Master God. It gnaws at you. It hates you. It hates the others around you. It hates. And it hates. And all it knows is fucking hate. It is the voice in your head that tells you to kill yourself. The ever-present voice creates realities that are unbearable to all minds.

I firmly believe that there is a suppressive fascist in the head of every person in the world. I also believe that there are guerilla fighters in your own mind as well. One must kill the jock inside your head to become punk—worthless. Once you are worthless and decayed and limp, then you may create your own God. Then one must carve into their arm to remind them that they are the ones who made the choice. Making a choice in the last nugget of freedom. Kill the God inside your head that causes you shame and misery and violence and hate and rage and anxiety. Kill the God that was forced upon your complex as a child. One will be all the better for it.

You’ll be the first to go unless you think.[^2]