the dunce cap masquerade

the perpetually autismizing youth culture tumbles forthright and without visible closure towards complete epistemic annihilation, another dance in the dunce cap masquerade. winslow taylor’s totalitarian factory grew tired of spectacular production and spat out little goebells’ in drag. 

bosch’s hell of musicians no match for the stilted waltz of wagner-on-ass, scrawled by the new proctologists of desire. and here we stand, drunk on violence before the event begins, unsure on whose cue to proceed because the maestro is drunk too and his band all toot out plagiarized reveries, and anyway they’ve picked up the wrong instruments;

a little doo-wop here, a little ring-ting-ting.

the notes are all wrong and they know it, but on the authenticity of the composition they nevertheless insist. militantly. like their little squirmy hearts would pop if they forwent the procession. the dancers feel it too, for the ass-doctor’s stumble provides the backdrop to their 7-step ditty, an uncertain sense-certainty without which the whole thing might collapse. 

and the masks. 

carbon-copied in 7k resolution before anyone arrived, produced and distributed by gangs of 7th order thingamajigs self-wound to pop on their own progeny and join in. godheads effaced by crayon, Qin Shi Huang rendered in gimp., a whole parasystem of cryptoethnographies reduced to infinite 8.5x11 prints. nobody remembers why they arrived, or who started what, but one thing is for certain: there is no metaphor. there is nothing but printing and the dance which prints.

a curious malady afflicts the crowd, a medical marvel to which they’ve become blind in the chaos:

each member sports a conical extrusion from the top of their skulls, a sizable growth made of flesh and sinew. no matter how ferociously they dance, how quickly they exchange the masks, even when sporadic little brawls break out across the zigzagging floor, these miraculous rounded cones remain fixed in place. 

no flux nor fleet of fancy casts off the mark, a stubborn little artifact of life. 

“the cap stays on..”