Marta Poznanski

You will never know his legendary outline
This one who is smart image of the other replete
Who lit by polarities and promise aflame
Sits just a big head, a deep breathy prophet

Whispering… accelerate, and we willingly
And enter cosmos of language, of objects
Grasping to anything we recall as part of history
History repeating and histories, we subdue

The warp weft of life, of words, the unsurpassable
Left in circles. Hadn’t we concluded enough already
Hyperboles draft never quite finished, as if there were
More extensions to be experienced, future has
Already arrived, why don’t you change your life?

Hurried faster Information Hunters, souls incomplete
To know that all bodies are extended into the night;
To know for certain the night of the world is the night of thought
Of consciousness; of yours dramatically linked to mine
Through symbiosis, through biological mechanisation
Of timed beings, of measured bodies, of thinking in banisters

Our bodies multiple, never to be pinned down
Instead focus on the horrorism, that undying guilt
And then again awareness of the ongoing, an immersion
Add reflection, reification, the hunt for individuality And talk

Dialogues of the mind, dialogues with others and
Dialogues with the great Other!
And how old fashioned schizoid became, he only
Went out for a brief stroll, into representation’s
Window, that strongest of casts, never to return

A man so self-sufficient that he just breeds off others
Imagine him in the safe comfort of liquid imitation
Never quite surpassing the line of originality, then speaks
Uttering a coming out onto the world, and recognised
As if by blast of godly reality; afresh in flatness.

But it is and always has been within IT, a part of its object
A composite of it original. Just a soft extension.

Did I ever tell you I met Lucifer’s disciple?
A finely timed afterthought, a man of lies
Half a year of pure ingenuity lost to meaningless void
Souls angels all dispersed, an infernal jazz
Outmoded turntable crackling softly on repeat

Where is man of pure thought, who creates things strictly
Instead idiosyncratic world of rubbish illusions
Of mechanism and impetus for future.
Future thought, future man, future future.

A constellation already entangled, complex
Behind the screen of now. Its here right in front of you
In bold detail if you just care to look at its object.

Man of future, do you exist among us already
In the ubiquity of technology, of device body extensions
Of time calculated, accelerated simply for jest?
Accelerated thought, accelerated breath; a last death spasm.

New World Objects

The schotoma is a shadow cast by the screen
As in a stain, and if I am anything it is this spot
Cast by nature

Non languages is sex spasm jerk off and nonsense
Paranoia and its autism file against future moloch
Corporate moloch, that undying one.

Anthropocenic palace, a mental space, devoid of categorization;
Of labour, that lost, free to move as we might, in words
And phrases and ideas, and that into lust like a tree of roses

And what object of thought illumine, remains trace?
A thousand connections rolled into silence, an echo of deep
Humanity, servility carefully taking of his watch and spectacles
And laying them to rest, like relics of great past

I remember once conceiving Contemporary
And then it denying me the possibility of the transcendental
Admitting that its principle task is rather
To replace object with affectation;
To replace the immutable with the transitory;
To locate the truth solely in the recipient
And let abandon the independent object of knowing!

But don’t you hear me wail the world has ended and
We simultaneously live in its ruins. Did you not
Feel the tension arise about my meagre complexion
As I stand in for this call cry. Do you not see the tension
Between history and histories?

The future has been abandoned by the current set, or
For a moment Modernism’s impasse led us to believe
That IT was in charge but that
Also a ruin

Speed slowing down

Reprise

O dear one, where were you when I was dancing
In that space from awry, dreary bar we all know
A place where we once danced, me anonymous to you
You in all your glory. And now, I live with things mainly
Even at times intuitively- since now everything depends
On how you’re feeling, your sensitivity for the day, and I

As conveyed by many instances, through the same act
The same air by which language drew a circle around us
Am left to recall when all of its extensions were ours,
We transcending, as far as you were already
In another’s circle
Circling
Amassing
Goodness.
Your outline secure. And I, on the edge of language.

Marta Poznanski is a clothesmaker based in London and Bydgoszcz. She is the founder of The Futures Complex which is in recess due to a sudden loss of actuality. She loves cabs.