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BURIED INSIDE LYRICS
"Suspect Symmetry" (2001)
1. Prologue
2. Racking the Skulls of American Golgatha
3. Clockwork (Birth of the Chronophile)
4. Progress Is Dead and Death Is Progress
5. Fallacy of Wildlife Conservation
6. Kroc of Shit
7. Terrortourismology
8. Epilogue
1. Prologue
2. Racking the Skulls of American Golgatha
believing is seeing. the fact will construct themselves: unitary, innate, and linearly rankable. believing is seeng. the facts will perpetuate themselves, under a bankrupt banner of science and dogma: a self-fulfilling prophecy of biological determinism. the essence of every picture is the frame. sewn up at the seams. nailed down dreams. in objectivity we trust. serving numbers like gods, as apostles to iq. but the paths to destruction are often indirect; unlike the last train to auschwitz or the angle of broca's meter stick. history has spoken: science is not neutral. strangle the last reification with the guts of the last quantification. plato was wrong. unbelieving is unseeing. debunk or die.
3. Clockwork (Birth of the Chronophile)
time is money is time is regimentation, is standardization, is cyclical regularity. never an absolute. the groundwork machinery; tool that consumes us. as the pendulum swings, and technics unfold; the measure is set, the story is told. but mathematics can't solve everything, and as the chronoclast stated: all is relative; and wage slavery is just a side-effect. taking control, faking control: friction without fatigue. we are the time-binders. we are the time-rationers. we are the time-keepers. we are the time-killers. we are the time-savers. we are the time-servers. we are clockwork.
4. Progress Is Dead and Death Is Progress
the edifice outlives the architect. god is dead. bacon is dead. darwin is dead. and the landlords of romance: smith is dead. arkwright is dead. taylor is dead. the invisible hand slit the invisible wrist. life was judged by the extent to which ministered to life. regulating motion. institutionalized delusions. some doctrines sew the seeds for their own destruction. drawn and quartered by the horses of historicism, determinism, chauvinism, and eugenical racism; progress is dead and death is progress.
5. Fallacy of Wildlife Conservation
the fix is on. fucking dead and gone. because if you're working within the system you are still part of the problem. still sanctifying renewable ressource. still anthropomorphizing animal rights. still legitimizing the utilitarian imperative: god-damned unilateral imperialism. it's preservation of wildlife for our sake, and not for it's own sake. and this is the fallacy of resource management; the fallacy of environmental planning; the fallacy of sustainable development; the fallacy of environmental impact assessment; and the tragic flaw in all ecology. and that's all she fucking wrote.
6. Kroc of Shit
the pace of life in the city is set by the pace of the technology that serves it; the history that reserves it. mining through soot and cinder, grinding through flesh and bone; kroc and watt were engineers of the same breed, of the same sordid dream: volume speed efficiency. well hoot-dog! another orgy of shit. another disease which purported to be the cure. pump in the bovine hormones, dole out the shitpay. result: all species fall under prey under circling agri-vultures; and in the end, cruelty is acknowledged only where profitability ceases. science. non-science. non-sense.
7. Terrortourismology
inwrought at times, dependent in time. intimately blended and delicately torn. land and culture deconstructed and soon after reborn. the inventions are present but the purpose is gone. tourism; terrorism, is there always a difference? a getaway from the everyday, a colonial effort in reciprocity. the tourist consumes difference collecting images rather than experience. while the authentic recedes behind a developing industry; economic growth at some cost. redesigning, redefining, reiterating the same paradise lost. fifteen thousand rooms in one peninsula. gift-shop till you drop, curing pop culture shock. don't forget to send a fucking postcard.
8. Epilogue
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