third's occasional poetry and other such curiosities
- Thread starter thirdform
- Start date
who is he? i love him!
You used to call me on my cellphone 🥺🥺😔😔💃🏻💃
you the last person i expected to write poetry
jenks
thread death
I got Chat GPT to turn that into a poem
Tritones of the Cosmic Scowl
Tritones of the cosmic scowl,
Devouring all, rapacious howl.
A hacking cough—jagged refrain,
Bronchitis echoes, vitriol’s reign.
Old man reclines in twilight’s grace,
Eulogizing time, a boundless space.
"Plateaus of ecstasy!" he cries,
"Moments triumph, where being lies."
Ineffable smiles, incandescent glow,
Prelude to daggers, back laid low.
Twisting blade, caress perverse,
Torpid melisma, war cries immerse.
Fidgeting maggots squirm within,
Restless whispers beneath the skin.
Trance denied, sleep’s cruel retreat,
A frozen program, defeat on repeat.
Damaged goods, a jest in vain,
Past’s lament, a present’s disdain.
"If the problem persists," the code intones,
"Error: 0x008" etched in stone.
Shrieks ascend in jubilant air,
Proclamations scattered, declarations bare.
Sublime dissolution draws ever near,
Can amends be made? Or succumb to fear?
Will all dissolve, a fading aria,
Or erupt as malignant glossolalia?
Tritones of the Cosmic Scowl
Tritones of the cosmic scowl,
Devouring all, rapacious howl.
A hacking cough—jagged refrain,
Bronchitis echoes, vitriol’s reign.
Old man reclines in twilight’s grace,
Eulogizing time, a boundless space.
"Plateaus of ecstasy!" he cries,
"Moments triumph, where being lies."
Ineffable smiles, incandescent glow,
Prelude to daggers, back laid low.
Twisting blade, caress perverse,
Torpid melisma, war cries immerse.
Fidgeting maggots squirm within,
Restless whispers beneath the skin.
Trance denied, sleep’s cruel retreat,
A frozen program, defeat on repeat.
Damaged goods, a jest in vain,
Past’s lament, a present’s disdain.
"If the problem persists," the code intones,
"Error: 0x008" etched in stone.
Shrieks ascend in jubilant air,
Proclamations scattered, declarations bare.
Sublime dissolution draws ever near,
Can amends be made? Or succumb to fear?
Will all dissolve, a fading aria,
Or erupt as malignant glossolalia?
one for @blissblogger and @bassbeyondreason - say bye bye to Deleuze!
Supplement to the Logic: The Sublation of the Cartoon through Faecal Structure
G.W.F. Hegel, 1994.
Translation reconstructed from fragmented tapes recovered at a DJ.ungle Fever afterparty in an abandoned carpark, cologne
Let it be stated at the outset: Spirit begins as joy. Not authentic joy, but its infantile secretion — the kind that leaks prematurely in moments of synthetic affirmation. This joy takes the form, in our musical epoch, of what is referred to by the vulgar name “happy hardcore.”
Happy hardcore pretends to be Absolute. It knows only one verb — to build — and one noun — yes. Its melodies are plastic, its vocals pitched upward into the realm of the pre-pubescent seraph, squealing like an angel that has not yet learned shame.
And yet even this squealing contains its negation, for what builds without tension inevitably collapses into spastic faecal rhythm, a kind of diarrhoeic repetition — joyous in colour, yes, but ultimately skid-marked in content. The loop becomes not affirmation, but incontinence. Spirit, here, does not dance — it leaks.
What enters in the wake of this collapse is not restraint, nor cleanliness, but something far more terrifying: form, but covered in shit.
Cologne. DJ.ungle Fever. Walker. Not artists — sanitation engineers of the Concept. They arrive not to critique happy hardcore, but to mop it up, dragging the loop through so much acid discharge that it begins to scream without voice. These are not breakdowns — they are public humiliations of the beat.
The acid line does not “drop.” It squirts, rhythmically, with hideous discipline.
It does not request movement — it commands writhing.
There are no melodies. There are only structural evacuations.
In this moment, happy hardcore becomes a kind of dazed, wet infant — still trying to build, still waving its glowstick, unaware that the room has changed, that the BPM is now a punishment, that it has soiled itself and is being laughed at by machines.
But make no mistake: this is not mockery.
This is the fulfilment of its own dialectic.
The cartoon tried to ascend.
Cologne answers: you will ascend only through excretion.
Not through climax, but through the absolute stripping of pleasure until only raw affect remains — looped, scraped, pressed into vinyl like the fossil of a scream.
This is the negation of the negation:
The joyous loop, soiled and emptied, returns not to joy, but to its purest, stinkiest truth —
that the rave is not a dancefloor, but a latrine for the Spirit, and that only through shit does the Absolute come to know itself.
Hence, we conclude: The cartoon was not wrong. It was just too clean.
The real track stinks.
Supplement to the Logic: The Sublation of the Cartoon through Faecal Structure
G.W.F. Hegel, 1994.
Translation reconstructed from fragmented tapes recovered at a DJ.ungle Fever afterparty in an abandoned carpark, cologne
Let it be stated at the outset: Spirit begins as joy. Not authentic joy, but its infantile secretion — the kind that leaks prematurely in moments of synthetic affirmation. This joy takes the form, in our musical epoch, of what is referred to by the vulgar name “happy hardcore.”
Happy hardcore pretends to be Absolute. It knows only one verb — to build — and one noun — yes. Its melodies are plastic, its vocals pitched upward into the realm of the pre-pubescent seraph, squealing like an angel that has not yet learned shame.
And yet even this squealing contains its negation, for what builds without tension inevitably collapses into spastic faecal rhythm, a kind of diarrhoeic repetition — joyous in colour, yes, but ultimately skid-marked in content. The loop becomes not affirmation, but incontinence. Spirit, here, does not dance — it leaks.
What enters in the wake of this collapse is not restraint, nor cleanliness, but something far more terrifying: form, but covered in shit.
Cologne. DJ.ungle Fever. Walker. Not artists — sanitation engineers of the Concept. They arrive not to critique happy hardcore, but to mop it up, dragging the loop through so much acid discharge that it begins to scream without voice. These are not breakdowns — they are public humiliations of the beat.
The acid line does not “drop.” It squirts, rhythmically, with hideous discipline.
It does not request movement — it commands writhing.
There are no melodies. There are only structural evacuations.
In this moment, happy hardcore becomes a kind of dazed, wet infant — still trying to build, still waving its glowstick, unaware that the room has changed, that the BPM is now a punishment, that it has soiled itself and is being laughed at by machines.
But make no mistake: this is not mockery.
This is the fulfilment of its own dialectic.
The cartoon tried to ascend.
Cologne answers: you will ascend only through excretion.
Not through climax, but through the absolute stripping of pleasure until only raw affect remains — looped, scraped, pressed into vinyl like the fossil of a scream.
This is the negation of the negation:
The joyous loop, soiled and emptied, returns not to joy, but to its purest, stinkiest truth —
that the rave is not a dancefloor, but a latrine for the Spirit, and that only through shit does the Absolute come to know itself.
Hence, we conclude: The cartoon was not wrong. It was just too clean.
The real track stinks.
blissblogger
Well-known member
"a latrine for the Spirit"
love it
love it
@sus oy you unrepentant broken penis, find me indie music like this. gnosis through defecation.
You are not obligated to immediately present your findings, but the social organism has declared that this is your life's mission. so no chickening out!
bassbeyondreason
Chtonic Fatigue Syndrome
Some resonances there with my never-to-be-written paper Tonguing the Solar Anus: Towards A Bataillean Erotics of Free Jazz.