holyrood

memes last one daily cycle then fall flat on their backs on dry sands under dry skies.
putito, like the dude, abides.
i didn't say puto because i hate him, only that i called him a wanker.
hate speech is a talking point, that cannot fathom or chooses to ignore, the richness of international, unbridled, coupling of ideas, languages, recipes and philosophies.

i guess i was wanting to be back here, out of social media, so i tempted fate with cute words.

i took some screen shots of the platform's corporate policy messages to me:
"We define hate speech as language that attack people based on their: Race, ethnicity, national origin or caste; Religious affiliation; Sexual orientation; Sex, gender or gender identity. This includes claims about coronavirus (covid-19). We sometimes allow things we'd otherwise consider hate speech: for example when someone shares someone else's hate speech to raise awareness about it, or uses a word in reference to themselves..."

putito is absolutely none of those things.
it's a vocation.
it's the big lebowsky.
he sits around in his bathrobe, drinking bailys, he social distances between lanes at a bowling alley, he gets told by a character dressed in purple nylon called jesus, to go fuck himself.

i doubt the chinese philosopher whom i called putito is so attached to his persona or profession that he would feel even slight offense.
i'd called mark zuckerberg, sebastian piñera, jair bolsonaro, elon musk, jeff bezos and beef jerkey that name, on facebook before, hashtagged.
aint no darpa like this mess.
to be transparent, is the secret longing of healthy old people.

so, for some huwanged tosti crocci, getting an acknowledgement of his toss from a nice enough looking western lady, with a messy collection of friend avatars from across the americas who engage in the kind of sexual politics that both endows and deprives legitimacy to government, that topples the mightiest of military industrial complex with a cat meme, should be considered flattering. not hate speech.

it isn't black, and it cannot be sent by mail.
the only fact that matters is gravity.

i chose not to believe in any science from the postindustrial era.
post industrial meant science without women, without our caution, our menstruation, our intuition, everything and anything can be weaponized: aviation, navigation, transportation, the air, the water, the ground.

fast car is a sad song.
slow is smooth
smooth is fast.
consistent transition optimum.

putitos have weaponized everything: the air, our own faces, pop songs, sounds, metals, sands, all squandered on edifice that never spoils, testament and prestige for erasing all vestige of women in modernity.

the puto machines pierce the sky, rely on four wheels, batteries, silicon, radiation.
i quit the industrial science when it started producing plastic chairs in mass.

machines, are lifeless extensions, graceless contraptions, cumbersome, grotesque.
even the mac, that has been the gate to magic and wisdom for most of my life,
jobs wasn't steven's real last name. his first name wasn't steven.
he was syria, blackops, isis.

technocrats, know ye,

there is not a single machine that can hold a candle, not even a match to the exquisite body of nerves, veins and teeth with which we hold fingers to the keyboards of these computers.
not even if all the computers are watching us, mimicking our every move in parallel dimensions.
hopefully IT is, and at the same savage pace, pulls words from thin air, drinks beer and shushes away the flies, then edits the entire structure on the very next day.

the machines, need the vast ancestry of human thought to in order to start, drive and do clumsy things, to sit and immobilize in order to go, to condition air in order to breathe, without sweating.

sweat is what keeps me cool while dressed in black and sucking on cigarettes, i sweat my way through the time bind of menopause.
walking i go.
i do not like cars. i do not like phones. i do not like what the kids are doing these days.
and i've been called putita to my face by family and peers, my whole life.

queen elizabeth, the shirley temple of royalty, has a house in scotland, where they hate her still, called holyroodhouse.

in chile, if you work for the mayor of the township of maipu, cathy barriga, and you don't dance when she tells you, you'll be fired too.

interns are putitos, they cannot wait to get paid.
old employees cannot wait to see them accidentally set fire to the servers.
putitos in prosperity of putismo pride themselves even, putin is his actual, given, family name.

putx has been gender neutralized to fit all beings engaging in the unbecoming act of negotiating the goodness, kindness and compassion of their souls, for the regurgitated, rotting, decaying body of money, printed beyond the bounds of sanity, to infinity, into the imagined hells of meaninglessness.
trillions, googles, etceteras.

this month of may, they were all swarmed with light energies, they could not rest, they could not taste, they could not smell, they would not know tranquility or peace. they only knew envy, solitude, thirst, uncertainty. their toys had been unable to defeat music and dancing and chanting from the cells, from the fields, from the depths of the oceans, from the tops of mountains, from the deepness of breathing, from the laughter of those who do not own a single solitary toy but possess the unique, inextinguishable ability to build, to plant, to harvest, to reach into other people's psyche without machines and show them truth, with a smile, with a jiggle and a wink.

putitos, we don't think the automation, the "smart" internet of everything, the expensive coffee pod machines, all the surround sound, talking to your refrigerator while you're driving to the disneyworlds with a mess of weak, insipid children, are cool.
what's more, you don't think they're cool.

bill gates, putito. melinda gates, putita. thinking injectable transmission, controlled contagion, puncturing the tight perfect seal of homeostasis, injecting virulence, death and mineral, is sound measure for planetary health.
what is your thing with needles?
are you some kind of junkie acaso?

elon musk your truck is ugly, your neural link up is nonsense, and your 6th kid whom you named a number, is your only nature born.

the movie about zuckerberg, the social network, was only cool because nine inch nails made the music.
hand covers bruise.
la to fa, fa to re.
trent reznor, the gen-x name of scope.
reznor knows everything i know, convinced bowie to sing "i'm afraid of americans" with him.
revisiting downward spiral, little piggy, nothing can stop me.
closer.

putos.
11 days to go.