Skip to content

Tastes Human // Tyson Bley

February 24, 2014

#

TASTES HUMAN

#

Quantum mechanics unknot a cop’s weird innermost jaw. A razor floats in the tank’s fuckable cranial chocolate. “I look like a violent model,” the cop says. “Crusher of criminality. Curator of unspeakable, breathing material.” The evolution of random leaks in the tank’s event horizon into dark underground clouds, farty pornographic headaches impregnated by dead things. Like a clubbed mother asteroid, a baby seal plays dead in traffic’s organic wave-forms. Decrepit shelves fall away in Minecraft as spoons cluster-kiss the grave’s double slit. On the holodeck, a human taste rips through lifelike sculptures; i.e. from a ruptured diva exits an orange, negative Bartman with smug tits and patchy beard; i.e. Riker’s cartoon muscles spit black blood into this sweetened UFO, himself. And OkCupid nudges another pushpin into Frankenstein’s monster, even though he’s jacking off to Flickr.

#

Analysis

I’ve been told to stay clear of symbolism, but I’m not sure I can…where does symbolism go when you have lines like ‘Negative Bartman with smug tits and patchy beard’?

What’s there to say if Bartman isn’t representative of something?

It’s clear that Bley means something, he has to…

Fuck it, let’s aim for emotionalism…is that the right term? I don’t know. What I want to say is…how do these non-symbolist reference-characters make you feel?

Overall, how do I feel about ‘Tastes Human’ based on its genre?

It’s science-fiction, I guess, so I feel it’s the future and anything could happen. I also feel that no writer can ever guess the future, and all the references are from movies or Tv or some other media, so…it’s a mixture of everything we think is coming, a bad mixture…a mixture that’s coming apart in some way. A mixture that isn’t really human in the first place.

You read the thing, you can’t feel that it’s optimistic…can you?

Let’s slice it line by line:

 

Quantum mechanics unknot a cop’s weird innermost jaw.

I don’t want to call on symbolism, but just seeing the phrase ‘cop’s weird innermost jaw’ makes me think of something indefatigable. A cop is [Hollywood] justice, and his jaw is always firm…the fact that it’s knotted means this is not really a good thing…it’s a thing that needs unknotting…and we all know quantum mechanics can do that.

Quantum Mechanics can do anything, really.

So my feeling, even without the symbolism, is this: anything is possible with quantum mechanics, the future could be great.

 

A razor floats in the tank’s fuckable cranial chocolate. “I look like a violent model,” the cop says. “Crusher of criminality. Curator of unspeakable, breathing material.”

 

No, the future won’t be great.

I know this as soon as I see the word ‘razor’. Is there any positive association for this word? You could use one to cut rope if you’re bound by Clarence Bodicker, but he’d probably still get you before you left the factory [because Detroit is lawless in the future].

Tank full of cranial chocolate makes me think of brain. How can it not? It has the word ‘cranial.’ And the brain/tank is fuckable, which either means it’s possible to corrupt it or literally penetrate it with your dystopian space cock.

The cop calls himself a violent model…this is Robocop, isn’t it?

He looks like a violent model…looks like, not is…coming from the emotionalism angle, this makes me feel like Robocop is not a saviour. He’s not even a good cop. Crusher of criminality, curator of unspeakable, breathing material…curator makes me think: ‘control of everything’, the whole system of the new art of fake shit that can’t be controlled by anyone, except Robocop…and the breathing material is…it’s the human reduced to the mechanical. Like 7 of 9 in Star Trek, my optical modulator is malfunctioning. This is not a disguise, it’s the fact of what we really are. Murder and all forms of horrible shit, done by people, are all reducible to bland description of fact.

Everything in this poem is fake in some way.

The holodeck…Robocop…Frankenstein…Minecraft…it’s the future that we created ‘en spec’ gone wrong. Robocop shouldn’t be so frank about his nature, because that way leads to machine justice. Humans are reduced to things that just die, and mourning is finite.

It will pass.

Let’s skip forward a bit:

 

On the holodeck, a human taste rips through lifelike sculptures; i.e. from a ruptured diva exits an orange, negative Bartman with smug tits and patchy beard; i.e. Riker’s cartoon muscles spit black blood into this sweetened UFO, himself.

 

This one’s a struggle. Ignoring symbolism, what do I feel? I’m not sure. Holodecks are rooted to Star Trek, and Trek is eternally optimistic…the only time the holodecks were misused were when Murdoch became addicted and used them to live out grub-less sex fantasies with Motivational Speaker Deanna Troi. Even then, we didn’t see sex or tits or fluids.

The whole thing makes me feel…something is off.  Riker’s a cartoon, the diva is ruptured, the sculptures are lifelike, Bartman is negative and a cartoon child’s fantasy to begin with anyway…what else?

Black blood spat by fake Riker into a sweetened UFO…it’s a virus, that’s the only thing I can think of…everything I think is mysterious/great about the future i.e. UFOs, holodecks, ruptured divas is tipped on its ass and left to die in the future sun.

Cronenberg’s future maybe…or Cronenberg’s remake of an optimists future, where the optimist forgot all about body horror and how wires mixing with flesh do not go in without blood coming the other way.

If you can’t make it through Videodrome then this is not the poem for you.

What about this, the final line?

 

And OkCupid nudges another pushpin into Frankenstein’s monster, even though he’s jacking off to Flickr.

 

If I break it down, into separate emotional reactions:

OkCupid = a dating website, I think. Cynical more than romantic, a reduction of humans to ‘looking for a fuck, do you want to fuck, let’s fuck then’ programming. I do not feel I will meet my soulmate on this platform.

Frankenstein’s monster = conflicted, but ultimately something to be frightened of [despite the sympathetic portrayal in recent films e.g. ‘Van Helsing’]

OkCupid controlling a voodoo doll of Frankenstein’s monster = unnerving, but comforting that Frankenstein’s monster can be controlled. Reasoning? OkCupid probably won’t rip my lungs out, Frankenstein’s monster might.

Frankenstein’s monster jacking off to flickr = not frightening, a waste of something potentially powerful/horrific.

Overall: I’m not frightened of this future, just depressed by it. I know Robocop could be more machine than man, I know holodecks could lead to obsessions and sick shit being done to fake things dressed as real people, I know Frankenstein’s monster wanking to flickr is the equivalent of Paul Klee working in McDonalds, sneering at anyone who tries to make interesting burgers.

It’s not scary, it’s a waste. A sick waste. Even if Frankenstein’s monster did eviscerate me, at least it’d be dramatic…at least it would ring alarm bells…this is the wrong direction, it must be corrected…that sort of thinking.

Everything in this poem is tolerable…endurable…we will not try to stop it.

Advertisements
No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: