To be released on Unkant in March
Daphne Lawless: Like many a missive from that Better-World-That-Exists-Alongside-This-One, AZMUD's very varied title is a literal route in - a Hebrew (or Arabic?) style triliteral root in ('ZM'D), which the meaning is condensed in consonants unviolated by vowels which move anywhere. IT'S MUD. In a dreamworld where commodity fetishism is reversed, capital as dead labour comes to life - the internal combustion engine, the newspaper press, the construction crane, the hydro dam rage to monomaniacal, theocidal dreamlife. The river of life flows backwards and uphill as waste products feed on themselves in a floodland that's driven apart and a crewmember on a red blood cell wonders what it's all about. A solitary I goes down the gurgler over and over again, and the life of the unicellular and famous is revealed as biochemical warfare. It's a trip, true fiction-science.
More news when we have it...
WHAT WHAT WAD is this slice of individuated sausage off the long-stock, stack on a rack unstuck from global bondage? It is I, this, frail spazum, asmud, unstuck stock. I am uncut, occult, unclear, oblique.
Can walk, can walk word over word with sinking feet, frolicking, picnicking, panicking in heap. Can dream awake dread wages, can rip together digital package, sleep apart nebulous plastic creations stretched out of bituminous commune, can burn together fibrous masses, sick stock for evaluation, for flaunting at death-markets as life-song unsung but edible in ink-frame & derivable as format-transfer capital capture cumulous for custom spirit capacitor house-boat install.
Camera-ready verb-files proturbing thorough over pulp wilderness, this is occultic riddle filtered thru collective commercial time-transfer. I own up. I drop name. I gather rights. I hoist possession, this oracular oral cabbage decaying. I wrought in ink village. I collect in pulp mountain. I ascend holy commode, prosperous seeking grist for hungry engine.
Am absurd, as think-wad shaking. Am bonded, bound to, bounding from, rebounded to Wascana Creek, as earth transfer trickling. Am job office plunking as this, finger-linking component strapped to transfer apparatus & obliged to prime mover.
Give job now. Give it wages for work. Get you southbound & go up in the mountain & see what wealth therein dwells. Enter wired caves, evade plasma network, insert yourself into the center well & ascend.
What cities, what tents, what good bad trash therein? What fat seams, lean streaks? Be bold, bring first fruit you find therein.
Now is the time to mine the first grapes before the apocalyptic living creatures ever again are herded into their waste eating habit.
Go where the brook branches & cut pages with grape-clusters & bare it on a yoke. Return after 40 hours & speak of coal & gas & black shakes & yellow cake.