Third World Magicks

two music journalists. prestige, the Great Fear. waves of static. fleeing the body into something somehow more corporeal. white cube and black magician. hazy buzz-z-zzz-z-z-ing sound effects. bloodrip.exe and bertrand yamasaki. tiny, intimate, personal cataclysms. deep earth rumblings. the worst type of acid rain. youtube videos of mountains. quantum chromodynamics. broken-down vr synthetics. a pink ray to the brain. the stench of ambient decay. a bronze-age gargantua monolith.

in the triptych third world magicks, significance, music and the measure of personal worth tear through dimensions of physical reality. music journalists blank zizou and bloodrip.exe calmly assess and destroy one another on the sharp metallic edges of claiming and competing for cultural capital, amidst the desperate attempt to stake relevant space in the esteems of others. all the while, people continue to exist on an island. all held captive by black magician, who renders souls into dust among leisure, boglioli linen suits and men with japanese names born from portugal, all while they create The Art. and then, the actual world comes crashing in after mike kleine’s peers begin to write about the book itself. 4th wall dramaticks. something something, critical mass.

how do we measure what we create? how do we decide what is great? who truly controls the orbits of the moon? and when is it acceptable to erase something that already exists? third world magicks is a place where experience is only worth how it is described. it is a story of people who enjoy the ideas of things. it is a stage where death is meaningless. the beginning of time. and then, the ending of everything else... evaporation. abject bliss. artificial terror. oceans are burning.
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Signed by the author
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