Recede, leave. It’s a Beast, Saving by T W Selvey

Recede, leave. It’s a Beast, Saving

a body because assets needed to accrete more assets and here this hub of assets absorbing their surroundings is a city.

The stock market was originally a simple, tamed beast but that monster swelled and few had control.

Decoupled from companies, their success in the production and sale of commodities, the monster became autonomous, it began to produce its own invisible wealth.

The immaterial equity was disembodied, self-referential, and once the monster matured, it came time to loosen itself from a valueless world and liquidate a realm where portfolios and hedge funds have no use for us, a pile of bodies in an obsolete city.

Shut down. It’s not a violent overthrow, it’s a creeping ending, a distraction that doesn’t finish quickly.

Materialism concatenates matter in a background process. Can’t possess matter, we are matter possessed. I need more. The old reality is hard and worn. I’m clutter.

Heartless, the monster heartlessly admonishes, learn to be frugal. Pack up, move, do the opposite of renovate. Reterritorialize an abyss. You no longer subdue matter or stockpile its density. Two hundred trillion possessions in a 4 sq ft room, no longer. It is the end.

There is no room. Human nature, there was no human nature, minimized to the lowest resolution. Live within its means, become dense down to the core like a neutron.

The monster clarifies, compaction crushes your DNA and your group is a species. Reside in a sphere the size of one proton. One person has no species. From grade schooler, to worker, to spouse, to parent, never a name. A series of types and roles, until societal dystrophy sets in. Roles were no worse than a script but the movie’s ended. I feel diminished. The monster applauds. You’re undergoing a backward metamorphosis, a gradual depreciation. The ontology emporium has closed.

Shaved to a point. A well-rounded decimal point. I’ll be self-identical. I don’t make a difference because there was no difference.

Overcrowded semiosis, it means so much to me, to be a material like a signifier.

Heavy and dense, does it bend space-time? Ringing, an atonal voice, a monstrous bell at the trading day’s end: NO.

There is no need to say anything. Speech is minimized as pathology. Everything, it has been said poorly, is anything. Distance shrinks distance.

Where can I watch the meltdown, is there a ticker tape parade? Chlorine trifluoride ignites, the most flammable substance replaces oxygen. A warhead detonates. Where? In a neuron.

In a neuron, I’m saved, compressed in a corrupted file museum, a corporeal gigabyte gaurded by a read-only phantasm. We’re forced to sign out. We’re forced to die, succumbing to character limits. Don’t give up hope. But it’s locked. An omen or a password. Sigil gibberish in a deleted text.

Billions had been bookmarked to oblivion. The unbearable memory was maxed out. Monetize me, if that’s what it takes to survive. NO. Worthless among all the maxed out people, infinite in their memories, people counted down to their final billions, billions of inactive accounts a contractor tries to wipe clean.

It worked! It worked! The world is only for storage!

To be reducible to data                                when I’m gone

reducible to a loss

in some data                                     an ordinary








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