A body is a machine.
A machine receiving inputs from other machines.
A body and its organs coexist in a parasitic relationship.
Organs structured in a organization of an oppressive system.
Machines feeding machines.
A mouth machine to a nipple machine — a nipple to a mouth.
A foot machine to a bicycle machine — a pedal to a foot.
All of them machines.
Some flow, some move, some go, some open, some close.
Machines — all of them machines.
What is a body without organs?
A body free from it’s own territory.
A body free from limiting restrictions.
A body free from regulatory processes.
Remove a heart and we are liberated from pain.
Remove the brain and we are liberated from constraint.
The acephalous body is no longer beyond the pale, to deterritorialize the body by removing the organs, is to be free from oppression.

Director’s Cut

A clockwork orange — my eyes in a straight jacket — forced to watch the visual projection of my behaviors. Your direction like beams of light in a gaseous vapor. I am attracted to this version like moths to a light. Is this reality? As the director of my life, my preferred cut sequestered by the producers of the unreal. The reels are real, but my reels are never real.

Visions of your death plague me. They haunt my sanity until the thought invades my brain; pillaging my mind, body, and soul. My entire essence is engulfed by this foul miasma — the causal link to the implosion of my chest. Collapsing into itself — my body takes on the topography of a great waterfall; at the center a deadly whirlpool. The weight of 10 sets of hands descend onto my throat as they clasp ever tighter.

I am alone. Even you have left me, but you are still mine — will always be.

Live, my son. Play, my son. Be who you are meant to be. Forever my baby.