The anarchic po[e]tluck can be considered a mini-wende, or possibly the catalyst for a larger wende. My aim with the development of the po[e]tluck concept was to hijack a traditional social-reinforcement event and turn it into a tool of beautiful chaos. I could, you are saying to yourself, have done something more impressive. But, I say back to you, it would not have had a name as cool as the po[e]tluck. So nnnyeh!
As for issue #3, I have a forewarning. I'm hitting a busy spot in school, and I do not have a majority of the next few releases pre-written. Therefore, they may be scant even compared with the first two. Quit your bitching though, I says. If this were printed, you'd be 1) paying for it and 2) getting it quarterly or something. And remember, user submissions are welcome, provided they make it past my blazing laser-eyed editorial accuracy of doom. Other than that, some poetry may make its way up.
Anarchic Po[e]tlucks - Revolutionary Foreplay
official s.l.a.v.e publication #8
for internal release only
Acts of anarchistic beauty require foreplay-much like sex, insurrection is a declaration of beauty and love (for freedom, existence, chaos). If we desire the most ardent, enthusiastic, passionate insurrection, must we not give in to a stimulation of the appropriate libido? The mythical assassins were hash stoned wild before they copulated with their destiny, swords thrusting in declaration of freedom.
In spirit of anarchy and fashion of insurrection/sex, our foreplay has no goal in mind. The body has a goal, satisfaction of desire by rippling orgasm and ejaculation. The mind has little say. How then to stir the embers, excite the senses, bring the participants together? Our anarchic po[e]tlucks like orgies gather, by word of mouth (a sexual organ in its own right), and promiscuously inspire.
Like a good Christian potluck, all are required to bring a dish. Excitatory foods both bloody and vegan, spray-paint, illegal fireworks, masks. Beverages of stolen wine, acid, mushrooms, anything psychoactive. Drums, rhythmically pounded in time with the real or imagined collision of coital bodies, unclothed and primal on beds of pine needles under great trees mushrooming into heaven, surrounded by the flesh of awe struck revelers, the lingam and yoni meeting as metaphor and actuality.
The fundamentalists fear dance for inciting wild desires. All the more reason to get stuffed, stoned, and stepping on toes- a gypsy llano, every throw of the hip calculated to incite the very urges of revolutionary foreplay. But just after the parishioners begin to feel the agonizing brink of release, the sermon peaking in a roaring crescendo, bibles pounded like raw genitalia, the insurrection/orgasm begins.
Spewing forth like eager sperm, the insurrectionists, ideally no less numerous pour into the civilization's roads, looking to impregnate its eggs with idea, art, anarchy. Half naked masked men and women, high on everything imaginable, bursting at the seams with tantric energy. Advertisements defaced and destroyed, sigils and slogans real or imagined (or what is the difference?) left behind try to sell you free freedom and other inconsumable goods.
A mini-wende is created, possibly drawing curious onlookers, the young children huddled over the forbidden magazine, suddenly given license to masturbate chaos all over the institutions of ontological slavery. Fulfilled desires, full stomachs, flaming ruins. No one saw it coming, no one saw it go. It felt an eternity, like an orgasm, but undulated through and out possibly even faster.