Amerika Online: Robot Groupies Amerika Online

Robot Groupies

Mark Amerika


If we really are "extinct," then this new moral imperative has no relevance. If, on the other hand, reports of our premature death are greatly exaggerated, then maybe we've got something going on here, maybe we're just tripping on the possibility of drugging up a brand new ontological difference that the information pornographers really have no control over and the technology that we find ourselves addicted to is so lunar-connected that all of this mooning-each-other-in-the-face is a way to suggest a revolution in workweek asshole chewing, which is, after all, where we eventually find our meat, our material obsession with the clock, the need to feel secure hiding up inside some rich prick's proctological region, that obsolete planet of destruction where what gets shat out onto the screen is another version of the death-dude, the one who wants to become a mommy breathing hot dirty lyrics into the microphone while getting and giving, sucking and receiving, the chain reaction causing a flurry of beaver to overcompensate for their boredom by grouping together and having me as an orgy.

I could be a rock star or not really a star, somewhere in the middle, not quite underground but not mainstream either, not mainstream alternative although closer to that than the others, a kind of marginalized mainstream where everybody gets to be their very own burger, the meat that comes out of some robot manager's effluent asshole, shot out into the bliss of somebody else's spiritual resilience, time running faster than ever before, breaking records, winning medals, going to war, selling soft drinks, cranking out heavy metal industrial power chords that jaded eyes see in terms of domestic monetary policy and worldwide regressive behavior, all at once and everywhere, a kind of virtual ubiquity where the business blowhards buzz with a chorus of DON'T STOP NOW or DON'T LOOK BACK or KEEP ON TRUCKIN' or BE ALL YOU CAN BE or LIVE LIFE WHILE YOU STILL CAN, all these slogans suds-sidizing the brainwash that recycles my spin-doctored money-laundered locus of unfocus, the hot thing that always bothers me and makes me want to slurp up the next contaminated ingredient, a halfway house for severed pussies, the priest who buttfucked the boys and then blew the Holy Ghost who, posing as his mother who wore a huge knobby dildo attachment and virtual reality helmet that flashed simulated visions of Jesus freaking on bad acid, admitted to having an affair with her own mother, the schoolteacher, who also admitted to having an affair with a space alien from the planet Dharmagone where, it is said, only lesbians live, although the men on the planet have a lot to say about that, they believe penises have a role in all of this too, and so they do, for I find myself ramming this transgressive spirit even harder and it makes me wonder if maybe I haven't overstepped the boundary and opened myself up to more potential criticism that might effect my standing with the ANTI-information pornographers whose excrement I am.

This has got to stop, no doubt about that, still, though, until there is some real sign of life at the other end, until I can hear her voice recognize his and exclaim some potent form of happiness if not genuine excitement, then maybe the dysfunctional relationship that seems to be at the core of this dilemma will never be resolved and the loose ends will stray further into the braided void that twists my life so arbitrarily. When I think about it, about what my life is, what it has become, an infinitesimal knot of redoubled energy constantly in conflict with itself so as to motivate my body toward a clever entanglement of mobility with some other molecular model of insufferable desire (one that seems at once necessary and futile), the outlook immediately becomes more rancid rain to be followed by a few days of dusty flakes to be followed by a few more days of indiscriminate cloudiness with a long-range forecast that delineates the possibility of a string of perfect sunny days, or maybe it's the big Arctic blast covering me with a different kind of string, one made of snow white pearls that she pulls out of her moist vagina and slowly slides up the side of my ass, gently tracing a ticklish route up to my chest, the pearls and their taste of womanly cum hesitating over my mouth until suddenly, without even realizing it, she starts violently choking me around my neck so that I know she's in control and that I have to be better, have to do better, be the one who expectantly lies inside the softness of her digitally-musked nest of sex-driven fractalsŠ


Mark Amerika is Director of the Alt-X Publishing Network. In the last year he's published three books including Sexual Blood (Black Ice Books), Degenerative Prose: Writing Beyond Category (Black Ice Books) and In Memoriam To Postmodernism: Essays On the Avant-Pop (San Diego State University Press).


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