:: DIFFRACTIONS ::

Ibnis looks at her with a weary, vacant expression, eyes recessed in sharp jackal face. ‘Huh, not furry cute enough …?’

The Smoothy sprouts delicate membranous ears, purple veined and with edging snow. Unreal flesh grows a nice white pelt.

Warren orbited a sedentary Main Sequence Star. A place of mountains, meadows, tranquil ruminants, veldts and profligate oceans. The Prey had sufficient astronomy to detect us among their summer constellations as we orbited into their amiable and predictable system. They witched us from stone observatories projecting above megaburrows in the silt of the singleton continent. Hyperplastic shape varies even if mass is woe conserved (two engine nacelles half the Continent long, a saucer habitation section bounteous ecologically sourced food, an ellipsoidal reserved for the dark energy drives, various manufactories, and the Boxes.)

They carved intricate designs into grassy mesas, but first contact was de trop. WE’d confirmed, formally incompatible translation manuals: rabbit, rabbit temporal phase, undetached rabbit part. wave rabbit, Lapin à la Moutarde …

Ramifying indeterminacies permit combinatory variants of the second order: those implied ideologies, morals, myths, philosophies, cosmologies and systems of ritual magic, all adequate to their object. Multi-agents simulating plausible histories for the emergence of Leporine Proto-States – biochemistries, evolutionary pasts and dummy futures.

OUR Loves land near the balmy Equatorial burrows linked by bioluminescent corals for navigation irrigating massive, contoured farms. Q-mem them ever thus. Adequate. Our Loves becoming their Prey, skinning them, impaling them in thousand grids little skewers as the cities burnt the new, purple dusk. The only remaining datum which repeated experience shows to be exquisitely contextual…

Ibnis is almost disgusted by her cold oedemic seduction and his own regrettable inability to affirm the eternal return. On the floor she cracks a rent smile. slumps with the other nippleless and toothless, cockles, decunted blood fat seeps … enters without body; so much discorporate algo .exe more insidious than deficient seqs the top seven each iterationnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn they’re bellied up/n green wetmeat before the desk complimentary orthogonal below white tipped acclivities, dewy meadowports open tranquilized /n tongueless/all the same locked-in scream/ missing voremecha.

He homogenizes their buttock/livers/ metabolizes the analytic terrine paraspinal sequalae cortisolover in zona fasciculata.

Does Ibnis come from an Industrial City of the plains, or the Capital, or that fatuous Southern Port landlocked by reputation? Mummyfelt War coming if she mistook its extent /n every thought /n sigh everything unspeakably small or great in your life must return to you in the same successionnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn /n sequence . . .

Is there only one War? It’s easy to practice trivial star-making or overestimate constellations of intent. Insidious repetitions ramify all along the Mesh/

Even Ibnis the Jackal, q-living the q-memfeed looping unceasing in the Haecceity Hotel. Echoes are rife along epiphenomenal ancient Mesh, galaxies-old.

Probing the eviscerated form of the final Anonym, Ibnis sees the Smoothies brain-bloomed and locked-in, suffering by OUR design. [WE’VE sometimes allowed our Lover his implanted DDS nanoshunts. Adaptive ND-opioid agonist brief periods of shamelessly medicated calm. Ibnis offers the Parodies Nirvana Drills, whirring glottal flensers, homogenising thalamocortical circuits metathyroidism hypogonadism bilirubin surges prion index spikes toxicoses quadriplegia with full sensory…

The Eco Jihadis always want pigs to know they are pigs. Hence their hierophantic, ecumental mass anal rapes… Yet even as he was squirrelling off to Delta his loving parents knew they were disseminating a ConSec Psyop [Diagnostics nominal before coma, temperature, respiration, systole, diastole]

[OUR LOVE slow naked on his disheveled bed The Tensor random q-memes from faded Alters… /n innumerable times again there will be nothing new in it every pain joy thought of her /n every sigh of her /n /n /nnn . . .]

Tranquillised ruminants graze hypnogasm meadows among calm strobing fields. 7 Smoothies pile by a desk, yello unitards neat folded, comm badges on a crumb ash-strewn breakfast. Ibnis howls his demented loss everything unspeakable still small. The Demon must to you in the same succession [n sequence]

They always have the same face convolved from our n+ Voretrekkerlovers…. ‘Nothing is new’, says the Demon.

Ibnis skiing in the mountains before Winter Solstice, beads of light on crisp snow. Summer is painted in melanin. Swimming pools overfill with hyacinth.

Ibnis latterly incarcerated by the smartest most perverse girl in his Senior class, who instructs him in the articles of pain before a precocious suicide.

Ibnis drinks cold fermented milk alone in their former dungeon, chained up for the solace of his nights everything unspeakably small or great in your life as Hastur’s nnnnnnnn involutes tentacles sheer from the sky.

The sea gouts up bloodgushes up ten-horned Behemoth and the Nix Tentacle Christs shat poison o the land. 

All the dead couple again in him as the Voretrekkers eat, sing, happyrape cross the Sag Galaxy/ broken promises of the Coming General Intellect/n Final end of Inquiry AKA the ‘Promethean Stranglefuck.’

She terrifies him still. Perfect in that abbreviated, bladed life, bloated by his resentment though it is these days considered alien to the Dead.

Her demon silhouette against the window over the Market Square, dissipates like frayed cobweb and blown ash.

After n(n(n(n(n(n)))))) mercy meals Ibnis still erect/ndripping oily phospholipid straightens his crisp red unitard before the wardrobe mirror – chic cometary lapels, diamond choker bedecks a design conceived, doubtless/n one or more β-verisimilarities or /n the Hypergraph itself – /n hails us with the again-futile salutation: 

Ibnis to Synclast, come in our old Pal! 

[to receive OUR contempt/ howling rejection/ fugues /n static belches through his bonecoil]

…/n everything unspeakably small or great in your life again

Practical Spacing Rule 41: pursue media rapprochement with something whose [sic] hypermalleability no longer permits stable self-models yet sims you imagos in its postbiological exuberance. 

Rule 41n. Alternatively, employ DisK sorcery. Bribe Moral Powers with souls. Tease yourself into a Nacht Pilot. 

He finds the Krilln/nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn/n the open draw of the bedside cupboard, unbuttons his unitard /n holds the entity close, nestling at his chest, licks /n strokes /n cradles it lickfartDaddy…n+1 VoreLovers reassured, if a moment, by Krilln’s gentle squarewave rasps and bleeds from those fanged razor-ridged lamprey mouths, sucking blood from six hard angry nipples.

Post-Calamity Intimacy /n Sexual healing: Seeks nu life /n nu civs in the Sag Galaxy; skeins of intricate ideologies /n cultures complimenting their unique biochemical disparities: tangy, robust, rubbery, or gamey as these might be.

Still cradling the Entity, he walks to the door n+over /n over as he always has, to find it no door. Just an inactivated Simp; howls/n for them for everything unspeakably must to you in the same successionnnnnn /n sequence…..

The Smoothies always have the same face, convolved from all his lovers. All the living /n all the dead and /n Her, the precious secret she died for.

/n Etc.

[Then one last time, it comes. An anus in the World.]

Has it always been here? Did he somehow ignore it the first, second, however nnnnnnnnnnnn-many time? A circular hole above our neat body pile. A mess of inter-level cabling opens onto tensor after glitching tensor, floors receding up into vaguest smear of infinity.

But three floors up, a fibrous yello Lump like Hastur’s comical lil bubbacapers/yanked back from sheer vector on its oily suckered pornappendages buffeted by immense vortices. The suckers flower wanton with hungry/angry Abgründen. [WE feel him, yes. He’s Come. The Greybo little Fuck! Well, their interests are extensive, so it was only to be expected. Posthuman Hypercapital being more insidious than GOOdemons/n stochastic ruin than the precursors tied to a single ancient, long nxdead/ X-Planet.]

Again, the Lump retreats, a-gaining forward, flowering w/ delicate tentacles w/out any obvious core mass intricately suckered, meshed, oerwoven again, againing, echoing invisibly restrained, yanked again /n again….

Only, once, now there is a hole where theDoorSimp used to be. It opens onto a corridor, the gossamer flukes of the dead simp floating over a carpet as if captured in a temperature inversion – a noxious over-familiar geometry. The carpet has labyrinthine double lines framing acid red /livid angry hexagons.

Ibnis looks up at the Yello Lump, which still capers in mid-air over the hole on that upper floor and reverently places the Krilln on the bed…

…/n steps out into the corridor /n release.

David John Roden is a philosopher and writer interested in dubious alternatives to our existence. His monograph Posthuman Life: Philosophy at the Edge of the Human (Routledge) was published in 2014. His novella Snuff Memories was published by Schism Press (2021). His new collection of fiction and theory fiction, Xenoerotics, was published in 2023, also by Schism.

He also produces music as ‘Enemyindustry’ https://enemyindustry.bandcamp.com/